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A Neon Nostalgia Kaboom for the End of the World

In its ’80s IP retro rush, is Broadway’s 2025-26 season simply offering brand-name escapism—or finding a reflection of, and a response to, our current age of anxiety?

By Marcus Scott

The 1980s promised us two divergent fantasies. One insisted that everybody wanted to rule the world; the other quietly suggested that sweet dreams were made of desire, ambition, consumption, and the frenetic search for something—or someone—to exploit. Beneath the synthesizers and shoulder pads, the decade throbbed with paranoia: Cold War dread, runaway capitalism, media saturation, urban decline, moral panic, and the creeping suspicion that institutions no longer knew how to support and make provisions for the people living and working inside them.

Perhaps that is why the zeitgeist suddenly finds itself bathed in neon once again. On Broadway, audiences have been invited back into the leather-clad, punk-rock-vampiric seductions of The Lost Boys, the tear-soaked “chick flick” melodrama of Beaches: A New Musical, the geopolitical romanticism of Chess, and the gleeful, transgressive camp of The Rocky Horror Show. Off-Broadway, the phenomenon is no less pronounced: The pitch-black high school survivalism of Heathers: The Musical continues its reign of candy-colored nihilism at New World Stages, while Little Shop of Horrors, still flourishing at the Westside Theatre, remains perhaps the definitive parable of Reagan-era aspiration gone carnivorous—a musical in which capitalism itself grows teeth.

Late 20th-century intellectual property has become one of the theatre’s preferred reservoirs of reinvention. Yet this resurgence suggests something deeper than nostalgia or an industry hedging its bets on recognizable brands. In revisiting stories from a decade that sold itself on glamour and abundance while its reality pulsed with cultural Balkanization, financial erosion, systemic disinvestment, and televised neurosis, the American theatre conjures a cultural imagination crowded with the outsiders, monsters, con artists, hungry things, and chosen kindred of the analog twilight—not to retreat into the past so much as to reflect the anxieties of the present.

No figure better embodies this strange afterlife of retro IP and radical reinvention than Andrew Lloyd Webber, currently experiencing a monumental third-act career renaissance by handing his most iconic scores over to directors intent on ripping them out of the museum. The transformation is on full view in Cats: The Jellicle Ball, the revelatory, runway-ready, ballroom-themed insurgency that premiered to ecstatic, twice-extended acclaim at the Perelman Performing Arts Center in 2024 before transferring to Broadway, where it’s turning the Broadhurst Theatre into a literal catwalk of queer sanctuary; transforming feline eccentricity into something spiritually resonant and startlingly urgent. Meanwhile, the crown jewel of Lloyd Webber’s oeuvre, The Phantom of the Opera—the maximalist mega-musical that shuttered after a record-breaking 35-year run in 2023—has returned as a multi-level, immersive interactive event (à la Sleep No More) with Masquerade, directed by Diane Paulus. The production sends audiences roaming through a four-story French Renaissance Revival-style landmarked building at 218 West 57th St. in Midtown, reconfiguring one of musical theatre’s defining spectacles for an era increasingly ravenous for intimacy, immersion, and experiential nostalgia.

This subversion of the Lloyd Webber catalog arguably began with Jamie Lloyd’s minimalist take on Sunset Blvd, which began in London in 2023 as a showcase for Nicole Scherzinger’s ferocious, ultimately Tony-winning turn as Norma Desmond. And the Lloyd/Lloyd Webber run continues with a highly anticipated 2027 Broadway transfer of Evita, starring superstar ingénue Rachel Zegler, who recently secured the Laurence Olivier Award for Best Actress in a Musical for her performance in London. Zegler’s impending arrival as Argentina’s ultimate political antihero, in a piece that debuted in 1978 but helped to dominate and define the 1980s, cements this theatrical moment: These artifacts of the Reagan era are not mere museum exhibit; they have become funhouse mirrors of a contemporary world defined by a profound cultural whiplash not unlike the collision of Reaganomics, the Cold War, and Wall Street greed that birthed the original material. And we live an era defined, after all, by a man whose tastes and values were formed in and by the 1980s; Trump has called Evita his favorite musical.

Wind Beneath My Wings

To fully understand the mechanics of this retro-fueled phenomenon, one must look beyond the stylistic overhauls of these mega-musicals and examine the specific, intimate refuges being built on our stages, in particular The Lost Boys, Beaches, and The Rocky Horror Show. In speaking with cast members and creative teams of these three pivotal productions of the 2025-26 Broadway season, they insisted that mining this archive is far from an act of escapism; rather, for them it has been a deliberate deployment of the coping strategies birthed in that pre-digital era, retooled to make sense of a world on the brink.

“I was pregnant in 1985, and that was right around the time that Rock Hudson died, and the AIDS crisis was something everyone feared and talked about and didn’t talk about,” said Iris Rainer Dart, author and playwright best known for the cult classic novel Beaches, which was adapted into an iconic film by director Garry Marshall and screenwriter Mary Agnes Donoghue, starring Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey, and then into the recent Broadway musical. “Several of my friends, we were in our early 40s at that point, and we had babies in unusual ways—through open adoption or surrogates—and one of my friends had a sperm donor who was her best gay male friend. We were fearing for the baby, fearing for the mother—so the idea of someone coming into your life and sacrificing everything to be there to take care of you was very important.”

By the time the film was released, in 1988, Dart noted, “The AIDS crisis was in full-blown consciousness,” which is why, she believes, Beaches’ theme of “chosen family…I can see why it would move the story into a lot of lives and make it important to a lot of people.”

An impulse toward self-preservation and the forging of chosen kinship against existential precarity may date to her roots: Dart’s mother emigrated from Ukraine and her father from Lithuania. Growing up as one of nine children, Dart says her earliest memories were underscored by the laughter of aunts gathered late into the night, coloring and setting one another’s hair—an intimate ritual of care and communion that shielded them from the brutalities of displacement and adaptation. That quiet but radical network of devotion has remained the beating heart of Beaches. Jennifer Maloney-Prezioso, producer of the musical, called it “a love story about friendship between women who define their lives on their own terms.” In “quietly and powerfully centering a relationship where the primary love story is not romantic” feels, to Maloney-Prezioso, “more necessary and in some ways, more radical.”

Beaches, ostensibly a story of female friendship, quietly exposes something American masculinity has long struggled to sanction: emotional dependence without humiliation. Its central relationship offers the kind of lifelong, sustaining intimacy many men are culturally discouraged from seeking outside romance, a reminder that friendship itself can be a life raft.

“My best girlfriends have been the people who have saved my life, really, truly,” said actress Kelli Barrett, who played the role of Bertie White in Beaches on Broadway. “They’ve been my chosen family since I was very young, and I don’t know where I would be without them emotionally, physically, literally. The story I’m telling is to honor them…and the bonds between women and how deep they go.”

Barrett also connected the musical’s themes to a broader contemporary anxiety: the deepening crisis of male loneliness. “I have so much empathy for men,” she said, reflecting on the ways intimate friendships between men are often socialized out of existence. Recalling an observation from Jane Fonda, Barrett pointed to the different ways society often teaches men and women to connect. “Men bond over what they’re looking at in front of them: a sports game, a hot car, a beautiful woman,” she said. “Women bond over what’s happening inside of them. So, for men, it’s what’s externalized, and for women, it’s what’s internalized… I wish for men that same relationship, and I think if they had it, we wouldn’t be on a fucked-up planet.”

But the emotional patience of Beaches clearly sat uneasily within a Broadway economy increasingly driven by spectacle. The show ended its run at the Majestic Theatre on Sunday, May 24, playing just 28 previews and 38 regular performances after weathering soft ticket sales and critical headwinds; still, a national tour is planned for 2027. The show’s premature closing feels particularly painful when measured against the literal lifetimes anchored to its score. Dart, now 82, spent more than a decade developing the musical (her second Broadway credit, after 2011’s The People in the Picture,starring Donna Murphy), after surviving the 2015 passing of her book co-writer, Thom Thomas. Meanwhile, the musical’s legendary composer, Mike Stoller, navigated this volatile Broadway venture at 93, standing as perhaps the oldest living composer to debut a score on the Great White Way.

The commercial death of Beaches exposes the brutal gravity of modern Broadway, proving that these reconstructed communities are ultimately only as safe as the capital backing them. It also serves as a sharp reality check for this wave of nostalgia: The stage can freely conjure these defiant, neon-drenched outcasts of the pre-digital era, but the landlord still must be paid.

Lose Yourself, or Belong to Someone

If Beaches treated the terrifying arrival of a literal blood crisis as a gentle catalyst for matriarchal devotion, the era’s vampire lore approached that same late-’80s existential dread through the visceral vocabulary of horror. Tom Holland’s 1985 film Fright Night—a text widely dissected for its sharp contemporary HIV/AIDS allegories of hidden afflictions infiltrating suburban neighborhoods—was succeeded by the 1987 film The Lost Boys, which crystallized a cultural moment in which a single, intimate transgression or fluid exchange could permanently alter one’s biology, transforming healthy-looking young people into “silent carriers” of a hidden, fatal affliction. The film’s famous hedonistic tagline—“Sleep all day. Party all night. Never grow old. Never die.”—offered a bittersweet fantasy flipside to a tragic reality in which an entire generation was stopping aging permanently, cut short in their youth by disease. While Fright Night got a “love letter” homage in Michael Shoberg’s 2024 stage adaptation for interACT Theatre Productions at New Jersey’s Burgdorff Center for the Performing Arts, The Lost Boys has been turned into a lavish Broadway musical (its budget is around $25 million), and it’s leaning into its ’80s frame, even beginning the show with a televised speech by President Reagan. But in translating the film for the contemporary stage, the adaptation unearths timeless anxieties about contamination and family surveillance, transforming the classic vampire pack into a portrait of modern isolation.

The new show’s score is by an L.A.-based pop-rock indie trio, The Rescues (Kyler England, Adrianne “AG” Gonzalez, and Gabriel Mann). In a joint statement, they mused about the “curse of the vampire musical,” referring to the terrible box-office track record of showtune-slinging bloodsuckers. “We seem to have broken it,” they said, “but that’s in part because, while being a vampire musical on the face of it, our show is really about family and belonging.”

Not that they didn’t try to make it about vampires too. While director Michael Arden, who brought them on board, let them write a first draft without interference from producers, when they did finally get notes from Arden and the producers, they were told “the word ‘blood’ is off limits.” Never mind that they had literally written a song called “Ode To Blood,” which is “basically David expounding on his love for blood!” The Rescues, though, “quickly understood the importance of the note as a way to avoid the curse of the vampire musical. But it was a hilarious moment for us because we had gone all in with blood on that particular song.”

The Rescues spent five years writing 50 original songs (the book is by David Hornsby and Chris Hoch), of which 21 made it to opening night on Broadway. The show’s arduous 30-performance preview process in front of New York audiences saw the show slash 25 minutes, cut two songs, and insert one new one. The result has a remarkably cohesive theatrical language. The score’s mélange of alternative/indie rock, post-punk, dark pop power ballads, and sun-kissed New Wave sounds aligns more closely with the post-Larson pop-rock-flavored musical theatre sound of Jason Robert Brown or Duncan Sheik than with the cavernous, reverb-drenched gothic grandeur of Echo & the Bunnymen or the dance-rock snarl of Billy Idol. Yet this pop-theatrical framework never dilutes the story’s bite; instead, it provides the emotional clarity required to make the characters’ desperation feel devastatingly immediate.

Benjamin Pajak, 15, plays Sam Emerson, the little brother who joins his fellow nerds in taking on the town’s vampires. Pajak said that executing the show’s delicate tonal tightrope requires treating the character’s comedic beats not as mere punchlines, but as a psychological defense mechanism.

“Sam uses humor almost like armor,” Pajak explained. “He’s constantly joking or reacting because if he slows down for even a second, he has to deal with the fact that his brother might actually be slipping away from him. What I love is that the comedy only really works if the fear underneath it is real. Sam isn’t performing comedy for the audience—he’s desperately trying to survive.”

The show’s balancing act isn’t just felt in the script’s tension between ’80s retro charm and modern edge; it is also anchored by the generational dynamics of the cast itself. Paul Alexander Nolan plays the role of Max, a businessman who owns a popular video store in the fictional beach town of Santa Carla, and who takes a romantic interest in Lucy, played by Shoshana Bean, in a Tony-nominated performance. Having adult anchors onstage provides a crucial thematic weight to an otherwise youth-driven horror narrative.

“I think marrying the youth with the mid-career and late-career artists is vital, and we don’t see it much in musical theatre,” observed Nolan, who continues his collaboration with Arden after starring in a Broadway revival of Parade and a production of My Fair Lady at Bay Street Theater. “Musical theatre is a bit ageist, and I really want to have roles as I age, so I hope that composers and writers keep writing mature stories as well as youthful ones for us to embody so I too can be mentored by those older artists whom I look up to.”

The structural dynamic between generations becomes particularly urgent given the cultural crisis the show’s younger characters find themselves navigating on the streets of Santa Carla.

“There is an increasing sense of individualism that has plagued our society a bit too much in the last five years,” said rising star Ali Louis Bourzgui, who plays David, the peroxide blonde leader of the town’s vampire pack. “While being unique and true to yourself is important, I believe humanity is nothing without community. I think people feel really lonely and isolated these days, and most people my age have very intense social anxiety because of social media and phone culture. I think our show is actively telling the story of finding a family and a community that you can share life with.”

Bourzgui’s performance is a collage of influences, taking inspiration from Billy Idol and Kiefer Sutherland, rock star icons David Bowie and Scott Weiland, and idiosyncratic sex symbols Tim Curry and Jeff Goldblum. Earning a Tony nomination in the Best Featured Actor in a Musical category for his performance as David—a seductively sinister bloodsucker with a baritone purr quietly draining the life out of Santa Carla—he plays the character with an acute, chilling clarity that vampires are hunger incarnate.

“At the core of it is a misinterpretation of what love is,” explained Maria Wirries, who plays Star, a tormented half-vampire rock goddess and the love interest of teen lead Michael. “I think on David’s side, he mistakes love for control. On Star’s side, she mistakes love for indebtedness. Over time, she begins to resent the cruel existence he has created for her, and what was inherently a selfish act on David’s part.”

The blurred line between magnetism and manipulation extends directly to the boys David ensnares.

“I’ve always imagined David as the older brother I never had,” said LJ Benet, who plays Michael Emerson, a role made famous by Jason Patric in the film version. “But also, David feels like a version of myself that I so desperately want to become. They say never meet your heroes, and I think that perfectly describes Michael and David’s relationship.”

This shared backstage preoccupation makes perfect cultural sense. The 1980s were a decade obsessed with hardness: hard bodies, hard ambition, hard emotional limits. It aggressively sold an archetype of manhood built on rigid self-reliance, corporate dominance, emotional stoicism, and physical invulnerability. That several of the season’s most prominent revivals originate in the 1980s—a decade that aggressively policed masculine performance—feels less incidental than revealing. At a moment when researchers warn of a deepening loneliness crisis among men, particularly younger men, several of this season’s most familiar titles carry unexpectedly contemporary questions about intimacy, belonging, and the delicate mechanics of connection.

By anchoring David in this primal, bottomless void, Bourzgui brilliantly threads some of the show’s darkest contemporary themes, mapping the charismatic cult leader’s predatory recruitment directly onto the toxic undercurrents of the modern manosphere and the compounding isolation of the male loneliness epidemic. Beneath the cult-horror surface of The Lost Boys is the story of displaced, emotionally vulnerable boys searching for fraternity, only to discover that companionship can arrive with a cost. Michael is not seduced by evil so much as by companionship; the leather-clad, predatory vampire pack offers what loneliness so often renders irresistible: identity, status, and the promise of never feeling abandoned again. Even the title lands differently now—not bad boys, but lost ones. Seen today, the vampire pack resembles an eerie precursor to the modern manosphere: a hyper-masculine fraternity promising belonging to the isolated at the cost of empathy, vulnerability, and, eventually, humanity.

It is a cultural deficiency recognized across the theatrical landscape this season, observed even by those playing the objects of that toxic, externalized desire. “I feel as though we rarely get to witness the innocence and playful nature of young men, who are repeatedly told by society that male closeness and sensitivity are wrong or taboo,” Wirries noted. “I hope this moment, which a live theatre audience gets to be a part of every night, creates more space for that exploration to exist and inspires young men to reach out to one another and build brotherhood that goes beyond societal expectations.”

This urgent reclamation of boyhood vulnerability finds its electric, high-adrenaline peak in Sam’s definitive second-act solo. For Pajak, the emotional climax of the production isn’t in the spectacular stage blood or the vertigo-inducing aerial wirework, but in the moment young boy learns to weaponize his own inner life to conquer his terror, offering a blueprint for empowerment that rejects the toxic invulnerability of the vampire pack.

“No question, it’s ‘Superpower,’” Pajak says of the sequence that leaves him completely spent onstage. “That’s where Sam finds his strength, his courage, his identity. I love that Sam uses something that means the world to him—his imagination and his comic book world—as a vehicle to find identity. What kid wouldn’t want to tell or be a part of that story?”

Don’t Dream It, Be It

If The Lost Boys transforms the subcultural spaces of the 1980s into a warning track for predatory radicalization, director Sam Pinkleton’s high-octane revival of The Rocky Horror Show unearths the decade’s ultimate counter-cultural sanctuary. Though Richard O’Brien’s glitter-rock musical debuted onstage in 1973 and on the screen in 1975, it was during the 1980s that the property underwent its most radical sociopolitical evolution. As the Reagan administration’s neoconservative wave and the escalating panic of the AIDS crisis aggressively policed bodily autonomy, Rocky Horror grew into an institutionalized suburban rite of passage. (The Rocky Horror Picture Show is the longest-running theatrical release in film history.) For Generation X, who were navigating a hyper-sanitized culture of corporate excess on the one hand and severe latchkey isolation on the other, the weekly midnight movie screenings, which started at New York City’s Waverly Theater in April 1976, and before long became a nationwide network of alternative community centers. In a decade when queer expression was heavily criminalized and stigmatized by the state, Rocky Horror served as a vital, self-governing bunker. It was a space where the isolated, the weird, the queer, and the repressed could step out of the stifling conformity of suburban malls and into a dark theatre to deploy shadow-casting and trash-glamour to survive a hostile cultural landscape. For an unsupervised generation craving visceral communion, shouting back at the screen wasn’t just a gimmick; it was a collective reclamation of agency—a transgressive laboratory for testing the boundaries of desire when the world outside treated intimacy as a death sentence.

Arriving more than two decades after its last Broadway revival, Pinkleton’s production honors that subcultural utility, converting the theatre into a living, breathing laboratory designed to disrupt modern isolation. By trading O’Brien’s classic synthesis of 1930s Universal horror tropes and 1950s Technicolor B-movie sci-fi for a chaotic, DIY aesthetic, this revival channels the LSD-infused theatrical genderfuckery that originally paved the way for the 1975 film. Pinkleton’s vision functions as a delirious callback to Charles Ludlam’s Theatre of the Ridiculous and the outrageous legacy of The Cockettes, the maximalist psychedelic theatre troupe of acid queens and thrift-store drag artists who defined San Francisco’s late-1960s Haight-Ashbury scene. Rather than leaning into the jukebox-adjacent pulse of sock-hop nostalgia, Pinkleton detonates the material into a carnival where the stifling, pristine innocence of Eisenhower-era Americana is shattered by a lawless, modern-day resurgence of pure queer-punk, gutter-glitz performance.

To achieve this, Pinkleton deliberately leans into the production’s inherent instability, calling Rocky Horror “one of our greatest myths of mess that we have.” This intentional embrace of chaos serves as a direct counterproposal to modern anxieties. Where contemporary manosphere culture prescribes hierarchy, emotional repression, and rigid gender performance, Rocky Horror imagines an entirely different blueprint: vulnerability through razzle-dazzle, belonging through difference, and liberation through the deterioration of the status quo.

Crucially, the show stages this transformation through Brad, the archetypal straight man whose stiffness is diagnostic of the pitfalls of conventional masculine performance. He arrives emotionally constipated: buttoned-up, self-conscious, and eager to preserve order even as desire and uncertainty press against him. Into that repression bursts Dr. Frank-N-Furter, a creature of pure, unadulterated id whose castle functions less as a physical place than as a destabilizing social experiment. In Frank’s orbit, vulnerability, erotic confusion, and emotional permeability cease to be humiliations. Instead, they become invitations into a collective, boundary-smashing world where isolation begins to dissolve only when the performance of traditional manhood does.

For Pinkleton, executing this experiment meant anchoring this collapse inside the visceral, historic reality of the performance venue itself.

“The serendipity of getting to do Rocky Horror at Studio 54 doesn’t really need explaining,” Pinkleton said of the one-time disco haven club that is now one of Roundabout Theatre Company’s two Broadway houses. “At every moment with my designers, we thought about how to make Studio 54 a pleasure center. Rocky Horror is a musical that knows the audience is there the whole time. That isn’t new—that’s Brecht—but I think the architecture of Studio 54, the legacy of Rocky Horror, and my own interest in just making things that remind us that we’re actually in the room together has made the thing porous in a really fun way.”

This porous, high-wire environment extends directly from the rehearsal room, where Pinkleton’s process privileges experimentation over precision, creating an atmosphere that mirrors the boundless freedom of a certain Oscar-winning multiverse sandbox.

“Something that feels really similar, in a weird way, to the process of making Everything Everywhere All at Once, and this is that Sam (and the Daniels) give their actors so much permission to play,” said Academy Award nominee Stephanie Hsu, who plays the show’s leading lady, Janet Weiss, a virginal, “All-American” good girl caught in a turbulent vortex of pansexuality, pleasure, and uninhibited desire. “That makes the Pandora’s box of possibility feel so limitless, because what you’re given is a lot of permission, and the core guidelines are shared, but that just makes mischief infinite.”

For Hsu, that mischief only succeeds because it is grounded in fierce emotional stakes. She recalls a piece of backstage wisdom passed down from show creator Richard O’Brien: “The actors need to play this as the most serious thing that’s ever been written.”

“I really love that, because there is, of course, the camp element and the satire,” Hsu shared. “But underneath it, all her desires are very real. If it was just fun and fluff, it would deplete itself and get boring. But because underneath it all her wants are so juicy—and every night she has to find a way to get it—it makes it sustainable to go on the journey eight times a week. We’re at the point in the run right now where it’s really starting to feel like ours—it’s starting to bloom open.”

This sustainability hits at the core of the show’s enduring cultural rescue mission. “One of the wildest and most specific things to Rocky is the size of the umbrella that misfits have huddled under,” Pinkleton observed. “There are people who put on fishnets and go to Rocky and have had their lives saved by it, who would never go to a Pride parade. It actually treats everyone like a misfit. It assumes that no identity is a fixed point, which is radical. It is a piece of popular culture that has a countercultural agenda. It assumes the freak in everyone.”

For Hsu, a Los Angeles-born theatre kid raised by a Taiwanese single mother, stepping into an icon of Americana historically coded as white meant expanding who gets to exist within that countercultural legacy. In rehearsals, she dug through archival photos of Studio 54 and struggled to find faces that looked like hers, a realization that sent her searching for a deeper global lineage.

“The land of disco sort of led me to this world of Hong Kong disco that happened in the late ’70s,” she explained. “It was happening simultaneously as Studio 54, but in Asia, where Divine was actually one of the hosts for the grand opening. For me, every night, subliminally, just getting to be in that space and come out in a jockstrap at the end is a kind of reclamation of past, present, future, simply just by existing. Getting to exist inside that iconography feels like it’s taking up space and expanding my own lineage inside of queer culture.”

That reclamation directly fuels Janet’s evolving relationship to agency and desire, mutating a mid-century trope into a vehicle for modern bodily autonomy.

“The gift of getting to blow Janet up now into this 2026 version is like there is actually still so much more to go in her journey,” Hsu said. “Even from the version that existed in the ’70s—which is right around women’s lib as well—there’s still more that we’ve discovered in terms of agency and claiming our bodies, and that felt like a really exciting opportunity to bring forth this go-round.”

Working alongside Pinkleton, intimacy coordinator James, and the broader creative team, Hsu said the production ultimately pushed her to imagine sexuality itself as stranger, messier, and more expansive than contemporary language can often hold.

“What really broke open for me is starting to think of sexuality not as this thing that even exists in our contemporary minds, but that is—because they’re aliens—even beyond what we have the language for,” she continued. “So it’s not just like top/bottom, you know what I mean?” Hsu said with a laugh. “There’s way more that aliens do that we don’t have the language for. Thinking of her embodiment and her sexual embodiment is not as something that is conscious of the mind, but something that is actually quite animal and shameless.”

Dancing at the End of the World

What links these seemingly disparate revivals is not merely their shared status as recognizable intellectual property, but their common fixation on a distinctly modern ache: the search for connection in a culture increasingly organized around estrangement. Taken together, they suggest that today’s appetite for nostalgia may be less about revisiting the past than recovering forms of intimacy, community, and vulnerability that feel increasingly difficult to find in the present.

Viewed this way, the American theatre’s current obsession with late 20th-century intellectual property is not a white flag of creative bankruptcy, nor is it a simple corporate retreat into the financial safety of recognizable brands. Using the stage as a grand funhouse mirror where the anxieties of the past illuminate the cultural and political fragmentation of our present, artists are digging into the rubble of the 1980s because they recognize the topography of the ruins.

Whether Broadway’s current neon nostalgia boom can financially withstand the brutal, top-down gravity of commercial real estate remains an open question. But so long as the world outside the theatre doors remains hostile to the vulnerable, audiences will continue to seek out these collective spaces. We cross the threshold not to hide from the terrors of the present, but to learn how to lock hands, jump out of the plane, and dance at the end of the world.

A Q&A with the Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright of 'Fat Ham.'

Written by Marcus Scott

Wednesday February 8 2023

James Ijames won the 2022 Pulitzer Prize for Drama for Fat Ham, an irreverent riff on William Shakespeare’s Hamlet that feels like a call to arms for Black joy and queer representation. A jambalaya of satire, magical realism and the American domestic sitcom, the play follows Juicy (Marcel Spears), a morose online-college student, as he tries to come to terms with the marriage of his newly-widowed mother, Tedra (Nikki Crawford), to his Machiavellian uncle Rev (Billy Eugene Jones). “This ain’t Shakespeare,” Ijames noted in the show’s program. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Shakespeare, this just ain’t him. This ain’t a tragedy…This play is offering tenderness next to softness as a practice of living. This play is celebrating Blackness that is traditional and weird and lonely and happy and grieving and honest and frightened and brave and sexy and churchified and liberated and poetic.”

Fat Ham had its world premiere in the spring of 2021 in a digital production by Philadelphia’s Wilma Theater. A year later, it made its onstage debut at the Public Theater, directed by Saheem Ali, and became one of the buzziest plays of the season. On March 21, 2023, that production will begin a limited run at Broadway’s American Airlines Theatre. We chatted over FaceTime with the playwright as he prepared to step into rehearsals.  

Fat Ham moves Hamlet from a medieval Danish castle to a modern-day cookout in North Carolina. Why a barbecue?

“Barbecues are cumulative spaces. It starts with a few people and then it grows. There’s food, and people are drinking. It’s a space of truth-telling, it’s a space of game-playing, it’s a space of intimacy and warmth—and it’s where secrets come out. My family recently came together for the Christmas holiday and a cousin of mine made an announcement about being pregnant. Everyone was just so excited and lifted by that; everyone’s energy turned towards them in this really beautiful way. I wanted a space where that sort of collective joy was possible and also where a big, messy argument was possible. Where a fight was possible, where drinking was possible, where eating was possible, where romance was possible. In Shakespearean comedies, when you go outside or into the woods—like the forest of Arden [in As You Like It] or the forest in Midsummer—it’s a space where anything’s possible. There’s magic. We’re not inside, in a cold room in a cold castle. We’re outside: We have decorations, we’re colorfully dressed. We are in the sort of space where magic is palpable and possible.”

Juicy is not your typical Hamlet. He is Black and Southern and, as you describe him in the play, “thicc.” What was the motivation behind that?

“Well, I’m Black and from the South, and that drove my desire to play with people that sound and look like me. When you see productions of Hamlet, he's usually white and sort of athletic. I wanted to make a version of this play that was open to a body type that wasn't that; I'm a person who, for pretty much my whole life, has had some struggle with my weight and my perception of what I look like and how I feel in my body. And another thing I wanted to do was to explore Blackness in the South in a way that felt contemporary, that didn't feel held by history—looking at Southern communities right now as opposed to a nostalgic imagination of the Black South.”

Why did you choose for Juicy to have a passion to study Human Resources in college?

“Human Resources is about care and workflow. Efficiency. I wanted Juicy to have a passion for something that felt antithetical to his father. He wants to make sure people are okay.”

How does that contrast reflect other things about the way you have approached Shakespeare’s story?

“I think the play is exploring multiple modalities of masculinity. We see a lot of different kinds of Black masculinity on the stage. We see Juicy, we see Tio, we see Larry, we see Pap and Rev. And there’s a masculinity that’s implied about the community that they live in, that is sort of present in the room. I wanted to show that masculinity is not monolithic—it’s not as simple or cut-and-dried as it’s often depicted. I also wanted to explore cycles of trauma and violence in families. I’m interested in primordial stories, stories that no matter what culture you walk into, there’s like a version of them. I always think of Hamlet as—and I don't know that a lot of people think of it this way—but I think of Hamlet as a Cain and Abel story: the story of a sibling killing their sibling to get ahead. Anybody can relate to that; that’s a [narrative] that you inherit and moves with you through generations. And the younger folks in the play have to make some decisions about whether or not they want to continue that, whether that’s what they want their lives to look like and their relationships to each other to look like. I’m calling into question the stories that we’ve been passed down as wisdom. Because sometimes it’s wisdom, but more and more I look at those stories as cautionary tales of what you shouldn’t do. Vengeance isn’t gonna help Juicy. Killing his uncle is not gonna help Juicy’s life get any better.”

Your breakthrough play was Kill Move Paradise in 2017. How do you think you've changed as a writer since then?

“Oh, gosh. When I look at Kill Move Paradise, that play is quite erratic, you know [he laughs]. I always describe it as the way that I try to metabolize my anger and my fear and anxiety about being a Black body driving around in America, walking around in America, just trying to live my life. And so it has that anxiety in it. It has that fear and nervousness in it. It’s in the text, you can feel it on the page. As I've gotten a little older, I've experienced more and I've written more—the more you write, the better writer you become. I'm more intentional with story, with plot; how I'm weaving a theme or a theory into the action of a play is a bit more sophisticated than it was when I was starting out. The anger is usually shrouded in rebellion or exuberance. At a point in my life, anger sort of dragged me down into a space of high-blood-pressure fury. But I think now the work offers people an invitation to metabolize anger in a different way. By the time we get to the end of Fat Ham, people are dancing in the aisle.”

They certainly are.

“And that is not to negate the fact that we’ve just watched the thing that had pain in it, that had trauma in it, that had violence in it. But just because you’ve been through difficulty doesn’t consign you for the rest of your life to difficulty, to trauma, to pain. We have access to joy, we have access to resilience, we have access to exuberant ecstasy. Black history, in this country in particular, teaches us that: The blues and jazz and hip-hop come out of extraordinary awful scenarios and settings. Those art forms are undeniably both Black, but undeniably exuberant, resilient, unabashed, queer—all of those things! They possess all of those things. When I sit down to write a play, I know that at the end I have to send people out into the world, into the streets, into workplaces, into homes. My hope is that I’m leading them to some hope.”

This play is pretty fantastical, and there are various displays of spectacle and magic. There are also a panoply of images and homages to the Pan-African cultural experience—allusions to Louisiana Voodoo as well as Central African, Creole and Haitian Hoodoo symbology.

“Ghosts are a feature in a lot of my plays. Magic is a feature in a lot of my plays. Because I’m a person who grew up with people who kind of had magical ways of thinking. I grew up Baptist: hardcore, every Sunday, sang in the choir, youth ministry, youth usher—like, I am a church gay! I also grew up in a family that has New Year’s Eve traditions that they do, and will throw salt over their shoulder, or say “Don’t sweep over a single man’s shoe because he won’t get married.” That sort of Hoodoo connection to the spirit world and connection to ancestors was also a big part of the family that I grew up in. And so magic in that respect feels very real to me. Ancestors feel very present—the reverence for people who have passed on is immense. So, to me, the ghost of Juicy’s father showing up isn’t just a specter from this other world that is coming with caution and with information. Juicy is having a conversation with his ancestor and he talks to his ancestor, the way that I talk to mine. The thinness of that veil between here and there—I relish in that, and the theatrical allows you to do that with a lot of ease. I didn’t want the ghost to be a joke. He’s funny—that cat is extremely funny—but he also has these great moments of, like, “Wow, I really messed you up.”  

There is a long literary tradition of Black writers explaining Blackness to people who aren’t Black. You don’t do that here. In fact, this play comments on performing Blackness, trauma porn and “enterpainment” on stage—and it’s done with humor. Why was this important to you?

“Humor is powerful. It opens us up to hearing things in a new way. It’s a big part of all of my plays. The question about explaining Blackness is huge to me. I don’t feel like I have to explain Blackness to an audience. I’m assuming that everyone will catch up who doesn’t understand.”

At the end of the show, there’s a cover of the funky dance-pop disco tune “Kill The Lights” sung by Broadway actor Mykal Kilgore. What inspired that particular needle drop?

“I love disco music, just personally. Anybody can dance to it. If you are off-rhythm, you will be on a rhythm with disco music because it’s four-on-the-floor and is just all-encompassing. It strives for ecstasy, it strives for moving from a passage from one state to another. Probably because they were all like using drugs and having sex while they were listening to it in the Seventies and Eighties. But this is a contemporary artist singing in the disco style. It’s not a song from the era. It just moves people! That music moves people.”

If you were to classify your previous plays by genre, with Fat Ham being disco, what would your other shows be?

“Ooh.” [He laughs.] “I think Kill Move Paradise, if I had to put a genre to it, it’s Southern hip-hop, right? It’s sort of grounded in that culture. I would say White is like pop music—it’s like my Ariana Grande album. And Miz Martha is Americana music. It’s like bluegrass with a trap beat.”

Only nine writers of Black descent have been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in its 105-year history: Charles Gordone for No Place to Be Somebody, Charles Fuller for A Soldier’s Play, August Wilson for Fences and The Piano Lesson, Suzan-Lori Parks for Topdog/Underdog, Lynn Nottage for Ruined and Sweat, and the last four prizes in a row—Jackie Sibblies Drury for Fairview in 2019, Michael R. Jackson for A Strange Loop in 2020, Katori Hall for The Hot Wing King in 2021 and now you. Is something going on in the zeitgeist? Is there something special about Black writers that make their work more urgent right now?

“I think a few things are happening. Black writers and Black directors have been trying to push the form in new directions, to be both in conversation with the cannon and also pushing against the cannon. Those four plays—starting with Fairview and going to A Strange Loop, The Hot Wing King and Fat Ham—all four of those plays are actively doing those things. And so are some plays that haven’t won Pulitzers but have been defining culturally, like Slave Play and things like KPOP. The audience for that work is already there and primed, and it’s just waiting for someone to make art for them, you know what I'm saying? People are curious about what is possible in the form. I remember seeing Fairview and just being blown away by the audacity of it. It made me want to be more ambitious—to create more of a social experiment with my work in collaboration with an audience. I think the same thing is true of A Strange Loop and Hot Wing King in terms of those plays’ exploration of Black queer identity. And that flows rather beautifully into Fat Ham, which is doing the same sort of thing by taking a play that people cherish like Hamlet and saying, ’Not only is this mine, it’s mine in these particular ways, and this is what I’m gonna keep and this is what I’m gonna discard.’ So some of it is just us, as writers, wanting the form to feel as vital and as urgent as possible. And one way to do that is to examine how we write things and try to find new ways into storytelling.”

Those last three plays in particular have centered on Black queerness, and on what we might call radical softness. Is there something in the ether? Was there something in the culture that made us say, “Now that’s something we need to address, to attack, to appraise?” Because it all kind of happened around the same time.

“Hmm. I don’t know. That stretch of plays spanned the heartiest points of the pandemic, and we were all quite hungry for connection, closeness, touch, tenderness. And that offered an opportunity for people to be excited about seeing something that felt soft or vulnerable. I think people respond to that because we want to be better. Culturally, I think, we want to try to do things differently. It remains to be seen whether or not that will continue, but people wanted to engage with things that felt tender, that felt connective, and all of those plays are great examples of that. And I think that’s also true of Fairview; with the separation that it is asking for, it’s asking for people to sit in an embodied space with an idea.”

Last question: How has your life changed post-Pulitzer? Has that changed how people think of you and your work? Or how you think of yourself and your work?

“Oh my gosh! It’s just made my life so much busier, but it’s also made me focus on the work. Refocus on my craft and my practice. I don’t want this prize to freeze me in time. I want to keep pushing and keep expanding what I do.”

Fat Ham begins previews at the American Airlines Theatre on March 21, 2023, and opens on April 12. Tickets are available here. This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Follow Marcus Scott on Instagram:@therealmarcusscott

Marcus Scott

Keelay Gipson, an award-winning multi-disciplinary Afro-surrealist dramatist, activist, and teaching artist, knows what it means to battle your inner demons and come out the other side.

In June 2020, during the pandemic, Gipson’s mother, Gwendolyn, passed away. From the pangs of grief, Gipson began excavating and examining his life and journey as a storyteller. Born in Oklahoma City to a young, unwed mother, the prolific writer was adopted by a Black married couple from the Deep South who relocated and raised him in the idyllic suburbs of Tulsa. It was his mother that nourished his love of theater and the performing arts. Studying acting at Pace, and after a period of being relegated to roles of drug dealers, gang bangers, and sex workers, Gipson turned his focus to writing for the stage and advocating for Black people and Black lives through his work. This would eventually lead to a passionate drive as an activist, with Gipson eventually becoming a member of “We See You, White American Theater,” an anonymously-led coalition of artists that circulated a widely read set of demands for change during a cultural reckoning that saw seismic shifts in and out of the entertainment world.

Now, the award-winning scribe is on the verge of making his off-Broadway debut with the kitchen-sink drama demons., a poetic meditation on loss and legacy. The play, produced by The Bushwick Starr in association with JAG Productions, revolves around the Daimon family who have come together to bury their patriarch and exorcise the trauma passed down to them—but is it too late?

While speaking via FaceTime from his apartment in Brooklyn’s Flatbush neighborhood, Gipson was in the midst of rehearsals for DOT DOT DOT, a TheaterworksUSA musical commission based on the Creatrilogy trio of picture books by New York Times bestselling author Peter H. Reynolds, adapted with composer Sam Salmond. Below is our conversation about the glass ceiling, gatekeeping, and demons.

Marcus Scott (Rail): Can you describe the journey of going from actor to playwright?

Keelay Gipson: The journey from actor to playwright was really just me following the path of least resistance. I was a student in the Musical Theater program at Pace University (class of 2010) and didn’t find much success in booking roles in my time there. This was way before we were having these kinds of nuanced conversations surrounding race and representation in theater. So I began writing roles for myself to act. I would get folks together in an empty studio and we’d read my plays. Soon I stopped acting in them and would just listen to them. I found my voice while trying to give me and the other brown and Black folks an opportunity to be full artists during a time and in a program where that wasn’t happening.

Rail: How many plays have you written and where does demons. stand among them?

Gipson: I’ve written seven full length plays. demons. is the most recent. I began working on it in the summer of 2019 as part of a joint residency with New York Stage and Film and the Dramatist Guild Foundation.

Rail: While I have my theories—why is the name of your show called demons.?

Gipson: I grew up in a Southern Baptist household. The idea of demons. is something that has always been a part of my consciousness. As a child, I remember my dad telling stories about seeing exorcisms, and it always fascinated me. This idea that something other could be the cause of our afflictions, both mentally and physically. I wanted to toy with that idea. Honor the faith that I grew up with while reclaiming it on some level.

Rail: In a 2020 interview with JAGFest, you said “demons. was a play I wasn’t supposed to write, so I listened to the muse; I sat down and it came out of me.” Can you explain this?

Gipson: As I said, I was in residence with NYSAF and DGF at Vassar in the summer of 2019. I was there to work on another play of mine, The Red and the Black—which is a play about the rise of New Black Conservatism. I often have multiple projects going at one time. A play I’m “supposed to” be writing and a “procrastination play” [laughs]. demons. was the latter. Honestly, it was a thought experiment. I was moving squarely into my mid-thirties and I had seen friends lose parents, and I was trying to mentally prepare myself for what that might feel like. Little did I know, the play would be the precursor for my own experience with the death of a parent during the pandemic. I say, “it wasn’t the play I was supposed to write” but it was the play I needed to write.

Rail: So, what’s it about? What was the inspiration for your play demons.? I assume the loss of your mother.

Gipson: Yeah. So, the story follows a Black family after the death of their patriarch. And what I noticed in dealing with the aftermath of a death is that a lot of stuff comes up, right? So, demons. is an exploration through an Afro-surrealist lens of what comes up after the death of a family member, mainly of a parent. The things that you have to reckon with, things that maybe aren’t yours, but that you inherit. So, there’s this idea of inherited trauma, and especially with Black folks in America, what we pass down to our family members and what we leave behind when we’re no longer here. So, demons. is an exploration of all of those good things that death sort of unearths.

Rail: I followed your journey throughout the pandemic with regards to the loss. Once again, I'm very sorry for your loss, man.

Gipson: Thank you. I appreciate it.

Rail: What was your relation like to your mother?

Gipson: My mother was my biggest cheerleader. In high school, she was the president of the parent association for the drama program. She got the pass to come do a photo-call during the dress rehearsal; she would be there with her camera in the front row taking pictures, not for promotional use but for the scrapbook. Like, my mom was the one who was like, “Go to New York.” I went to New York a couple times in high school with my drama program and my mom came as a chaperone. We went and saw the shows that we saw with the theater department and then we went and saw our own shows. My mom, she loved theater and she was the one that—when we didn’t have the money and I didn’t know if I could come to New York to go to school—she pulled me aside and was like, “I’m gonna make this happen for you.” She was… she was everything.

Rail: So, you’re working on this play about Black conservatives—I think it’s hilarious cause both of us have written about Black conservatives during the pandemic, by the way—and you’ve got so many other things going on; you’re an advocate, or an “artivist” as you call yourself, being one of the figureheads behind We See You, White American Theater and the issues revolving around that, in tandem with the multiple projects you’re cultivating. So before we get into that aspect of your life, was it hard for you to kind of mentally go from one place to another place? Are you one of those writers where you have to be working on multiple projects or are you one of those writers where you can only work on one project at a time?

Gipson: I have never worked on just one project at a time. I think for me, I need something that’s completely opposite of the thing that I’m supposed to be doing. Like, if I have a commission that’s about a historical moment, then I’m gonna write something that’s wild and fanciful over here to like, break out of that—not monotony—but break out of the sort of structure that one wouldn't give me. So yeah, I’m often working on multiple things just to keep my brain limber.

Rail: That’s interesting. I see the link between The Red and the Black in your artivism, but what about this particular play with regards to it?

Gipson: This play kind of feels like a new era of my artistry. You know, I’ve written several plays that are about race, that are about Black folks dealing with race and racism, and not like, being beat down by it, but finding a way through; and I try to be honest in all of those works, but this play feels very much not a part of that pantheon. It feels like, to quote Toni Morrison, I’m taking the white person off of my shoulder. It’s not about race. It’s about Black folks. I wanna write about Blackness and all its complexity and not in relationship to whiteness or to racism. This feels like a new era of work for me, where it’s just about these Black folks in a room trying to figure out how they move forward after this thing devastates them. In the opening of the play, it says “a Black family and extremists.” Like, that’s what the play’s about. How do we relate to each other? The world sort of doesn’t come inside of the space in this play. It’s about Black folks in a space together figuring it out and not in relationship to society or the political landscape or 2022, 2023… it’s timeless in a way because death will always be true.

Rail: Let’s talk politics. Let’s get into it. There were many incidents over the last three years and many of those incidents in the industry in some way involved We See You, White American Theater. This collective has attracted the likes of Tony Award winners, the Academy Award winners, the Broadway Elite and those on the rise… What was the intention behind that? Was there a litmus for that?

Gipson: I think that during the pandemic, we had a lot of time, right? I’ll say that a lot of people had things in the pipeline and the industry was chugging along. There was no reason for it to change. It was working. Then everything stopped and we had time to look at the way that things are going. Look at our industry for real, holistically, and I think a lot of us brown and Black folks saw that it's not working, not for us, and it hasn't been for a long time. We’ve been tokenized. So, in working alongside those organizations and those movements, I was trying to galvanize other brown and Black folks who felt similarly that the industry wasn’t working for us and we could do better. Like, especially in the theater.

The theater is different than film and television because it’s people in a room breathing the same air, there are people sharing space, right? And I’ve always wondered how we can do better at sharing spaces with one another; and I’m all about community. The theater for me has always been a community-driven space. So, I wanted this community to mean what it says! I do think that it's business as usual a little bit again, which is not concerning because I think that the theater is working the way that it was designed to work. Much like a lot of things in our society. Yes, we can push back on it, but if we don’t imagine new models—like completely new models—then the old models that we’re trying to reform are always going to try to revert back to the way they were working. Cause that’s how they were built to work. So, the momentum of some of these things, like We See You… there are several organizations, I don’t want to just point to that one… but I wonder what their role is now because things kind of feel like they’re back to normal. I mean, the seven Broadway shows that were Black-led that came right out of the pandemic, that’s a great thing. But they all closed pretty early. Even with Ain't No Mo… it’s not working. So what?

It’s not us, it’s not the Black creatives. Right? It's because we know these things that we’re trying to make it better and it’s not getting better. So, it feels like it’s the model. I don't know, I think we need to imagine bigger than we are even doing now. I think we need to think magically, we’re theatremakers, right? We deal in magical thinking. I think we need to do that more when it comes to the theater because right now we’re just trying to polish a turd a little bit, it feels like. [Laughs] Like, we know it doesn’t work. And we had all of this time to try to make it work and it’s still not working. I think of the Cleveland Play House incident that just happened. And I’m like, “How, after all of this time of listening and learning, did we come to this moment?” So, we have to think magically. We need to think bigger than I think we even know.

Rail: For our readers, what are some things that we need to really look at? You mentioned the seven shows that opened on Broadway in the fall of 2021: Pass Over by Antoinette Chinonye Nwandu, Lackawanna Blues by Ruben Santiago-Hudson, Chicken & Biscuits by Douglas Lyons, Thoughts of a Colored Man by Keenan Scott II, Trouble in Mind by Alice Childress, Clyde’s by Lynn Nottage, and Skeleton Crew by Dominique Morisseau. Since that time, shows like Jordan E. Cooper’s Ain’t No Mo’, the Broadway transfer of the Asian-led musical K-Pop, MJ: The Musical (also penned by Nottage) and Adrienne Kennedy’s Ohio State Murders opened and closed on Broadway. Not to mention, Michael R. Jackson’s A Strange Loop.

Gipson: And it won every single award it could possibly win; you know what I mean?

Rail: What are some things that we can look at in general for the field? Because this is a global issue affecting Black, Brown and BIPOC people on both sides of the pond. Using a bit of magical thinking, what are some concepts, machinations or ideas that could work?

Gipson: I think it starts with audience cultivation. Honestly. I think outreach is a huge thing that theaters don’t know how to do because they rely on their subscriber base. That's the truth. The subscriber base we know is mostly older white folks who have disposable income. Millennials don’t have disposable income. And like, I'm sorry, but to get a package at one of these off-Broadway theaters, or to go to a night at the theater and get a good seat, it’s expensive. Right? So there needs to be outreach to people who can't spend a hundred dollars or five hundred dollars or a thousand dollars on a package for a season. And we need to make it cool. Honestly, theater is not cool. It’s only cool when it’s like the hottest ticket in town, right? Right? We need to figure out a way to make theater accessible to people younger than the Boomers and to Millennials that don’t have disposable income. And it’s not gonna happen with one or two nights of Affinity Nights. It’s gonna happen by putting people on late night shows! I don't know. I’m not like a marketing person but to me, it feels like there’s a disconnect between what the theater is talking about. Because once people come see these plays and get talking, that’s where the change will happen. But you gotta get people into the theater and from what I’ve seen, it’s the same people. And yes, there’s Affinity Nights, and so you can go to a Black Theater Night or an LGBTQ Theater Night and see your community. But the truth of the matter is we’re either seeing it for the second time, or it’s because it's your community, you’re finally seeing those people, but they were gonna come to the show anyway.

Rail: Ain’t that the truth. So, you are trying to appeal to a particular audience. How would you market demons.?

Gipson: I don't know. That's interesting because I couldn’t go to churches, I don't think, and market this show in the same way that like Ain’t No Mo’ might be able to. I’m a professor, so I’m going to try and get young people to see this show. Young Black people because this show’s kind of weird. I like weird stuff. Weird Black shows can be successful too. Shows that are weird and Black… there's a place for them. A Strange Loop is weird to me. I’m like, that's cool. Passing Strange, things like that. How can we take Black surrealism, things that are a little left of center, but talk about being Black in a way that is just as valid as something that’s a little more straightforward.

Rail: You’ve grown exponentially as an artist, mostly because of just the nature of the beast. Where do you think the next stage of Keelay Gipson is going?

Gipson: I hope it is still in the theater. Actually, I know it is. I think I'm working on some musicals. I know I’m working on some musicals. I’m working on a new history play about Tulsa (because I’m from Tulsa and I haven’t written about being from Tulsa and being Black from Tulsa, and I think I should do that). So musicals, a play about Tulsa and hopefully, a film or a TV show.

Rail: And if you could bring any family member to see this show, who would you bring?

Gipson: I would bring my mother. Yeah, I would bring my mother. I kind of regret—I’ve told her to wait so many times to, you know, just wait until it’s the real thing. “Don’t come to the reading, just wait till it’s the real thing.” So, I would want her to see the real thing.

Rail: Pleasure to finally meet you, Keelay.

Gipson: No, this was lovely. Thank you. Thank you.

The Bushwick Starr and The Connolly Theater demons. May 20–June 10, 2023 Brooklyn

Contributor

Marcus Scott

Heartbeat Opera’s powerful take on “Fidelio,” as an indictment of mass incarceration, has been revived and revised for a post-2020 world.

By Joshua Barone

Feb. 14, 2022, 12:41 p.m. ET 

Fidelio

NYT Critic's Pick

From left, Curtis Bannister, Kelly Griffin and Derrell Acon in Heartbeat Opera’s adaptation of Beethoven’s “Fidelio” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, ahead of a tour that continues through this month.Credit...Julieta Cervantes for The New York Times

Beethoven’s only opera, “Fidelio,” is hardly a fixed text. He wrote several possible overtures for it and reworked the score substantially over the course of a decade. But its meaning never changed: the heroism to be found in devotion, love and freedom in the face of injustice.

In 2018, the daring and imaginative Heartbeat Opera — an enterprise that, while small and still young, has already contributed more to opera’s vitality than most major American companies — took the malleable history of “Fidelio” one step further, adapting the work as a moving indictment of mass incarceration.

That production has now been revised for a revival that opened at the Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium at the Metropolitan Museum of Art last weekend, ahead of a tour that continues through the end of the month. Already inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement, this “Fidelio” is now permeated with it, and the adaptation is even more powerful.

Bannister, left, as Stan, an imprisoned Black Lives Matter activist, and Griffin as Leah, his wife, who plots to free him.Credit...Julieta Cervantes for The New York Times

In Beethoven’s original singspiel — a music theater form in which sung numbers are set up by spoken scenes — a woman named Leonore disguises herself as a man, Fidelio, to infiltrate the prison where her husband, Florestan, is being held for political reasons. She aims to free him from execution while exposing the crimes of his captor, Pizarro.

Ethan Heard, a founder of Heartbeat, adapted “Fidelio” for the company and collaborated with the playwright Marcus Scott on the new book. Their revision tells the story of a Black Lives Matter activist named Stan — sung by Curtis Bannister, a tenor of impressive stamina — who has been imprisoned for nearly a year, and whose wife, Leah, given an affectingly agonized lower range by the soprano Kelly Griffin, is at a breaking point as she struggles to free him.

She gets a job as a guard at the prison; her strategy to reach Stan in solitary confinement (much as in Beethoven’s original) is to ingratiate herself with a senior guard (here Roc, sung with both charm and dramatic complexity by the bass-baritone Derrell Acon) and court his daughter (here Marcy, smooth-voiced yet strong in the soprano Victoria Lawal’s portrayal). In this telling, there is no need for the cross-dressing: Marcy and Leah are both queer. And, crucially, all of these characters are Black, a fact that looms before guiding the awakenings of Marcy and her father as they face their complicity in a racist system that, Leah says, is designed to punish “people whose only mistake was being poor and Black.”

Corey McKern, who plays a Trump-like Pizarro, with Acon, a senior prison guard.Credit...Julieta Cervantes for The New York Times

The spoken text is in English throughout, while the arias remain in their original German — a testament to the timelessness of Beethoven, though the production’s surtitles take some liberties with the translation. (As an excuse for briefly letting the prisoners out into the sun, Roc sings that it’s the king’s name day, but the titles say that it’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day.)

Radically transformed, too, is the score, arranged by Daniel Schlosberg for two pianos, two horns, two cellos and percussion, with the multitasking (and nearly scene-stealing) Schlosberg onstage, conducting from the keyboard. Expressive cellos reveal the characters’ thoughts, and the horns add an aura of muscularity and honor. The most substantial interventions are in the percussion, with drum hits deployed to dramatic effect and a whiplike slap adding terror to Pizarro’s murder-plotting “Ha, welch’ ein Augenblick.”

The soprano Victoria Lawal as Marcy, who awakens to her complicity in a racist system of mass incarceration.Credit...Julieta Cervantes for The New York Times

Not all the changes from 2018 were necessary, or wise. Starting with the venue: This production originated in a black box space at Baruch Performing Arts Center, which fit the chamber scale of the music and emphasized the cinder-block claustrophobia of Reid Thompson’s set. At the Met, the show floats on an expansive stage and struggles with poor acoustics.

And the text has lost some of its grace, with pandering references to the Jan. 6, 2021, insurrection and President Donald J. Trump’s infamous call for the Proud Boys to “stand back and stand by.” A casualty of these lapses is the baritone Corey McKern’s Pizarro, who is something of a Trump stand-in, a caricature among nuanced, human characters.

You could almost forgive that at “O welche Lust,” the famous prisoners’ chorus, still the emotional high point of the production and now a coup de théâtre. For the stirring number, Leah unlocks a chest — a metaphor for the prison gates — to release a white screen, on which a video is projected, featuring 100 incarcerated singers and 70 volunteers from six prison ensembles. The camera often lingers on individual faces, to an effect not unlike that of Barry Jenkins’s filmmaking, the way his sustained close-ups invite intimacy and, above all, sympathy.

A hundred incarcerated singers and 70 volunteers from six prison ensembles, recorded and projected onstage, sing the famous prisoners’ chorus “O welche Lust.”Credit...Julieta Cervantes for The New York Times

For curious audience members, Heartbeat has shared letters from some of the participants. They range from endearing — Michael “Black” Powell II’s “German was hard!!” — to profound, such as this from Douglass Elliott: “Most of us are victims of our circumstances who when faced with adversities chose the wrong direction with our actions. This choir makes us feel that ‘normal’ feeling for a short time every week. We are accepted as humans, not looked at as numbers.”

Beethoven’s triumphant finale could have been an insult to the contemporary reality Heartbeat’s production aims to conjure. So after Stan is freed and Pizarro defeated, Leah awakes at the same desk where, in the opening, she has had a frustrating phone call with a lawyer. This twist, that it was all a dream, is of course a tired trope, but what follows isn’t.

After a moment of despair — her happiness felt so real — she stands, steps to a spotlight at center stage and holds up her phone, assuming the pose of her husband’s activism, with which the production began. An ambivalent closing scene, it is an honest reflection of our time: of the mixed successes of Black Lives Matter, yes, and of the only possible way forward.

Fidelio

Performed at the Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium, Manhattan, and touring through Feb. 27; heartbeatopera.org.

When he put ‘Broadway’ in a song lyric, Michael R. Jackson was unwittingly naming the destination, and the destiny, for his unapologetically Black and queer musical, which won the Best Musical Tony last night.

BY MARCUS SCOTT

On a cloudy Wednesday morning, less than a week before he was to make his overdue, pandemic-postponed Broadway debut, musical theatre writer Michael R. Jackson was scrambling. His idiosyncratic, existential, metafictional musical A Strange Loop was days away from opening, after the creative team had been forced to cancel a first preview performance when COVID-19 cases were discovered within the company. That meant less time for Jackson to finesse scenes and songs, causing a burst of small panic behind the scenes. Originally scheduled to start previews on April 6, the production launched instead on April 12, just in time for the show’s understudies to spring into action and for Jackson to make revisions. It opened just two weeks later, on April 26, becoming a bona fide critical smash, with Jackson being celebrated for the musical’s ​​craftsmanship, fearlessness, and unbridled humanity. Sales have been strong, and last night’s Tony wins—for Jackson as the show’s book writer, and A Strange Loop as best musical—are sure to bolster the show’s fortunes.

That Wednesday before opening, Jackson was thinking back to the beginning of rehearsals.

“It was a really exciting and emotional day,” Jackson, 41, recalled from the Washington Heights apartment he’s lived in for 15 years. “I told the room that day that it was really amazing that this thing I wrote alone in a room up the stairs of this little old lady in a bungalow house in the middle of nowhere in Jamaica, Queens—that I wrote this monologue as a little life raft for myself on my little Compaq Presario laptop—somehow, over the years, blossomed into this mighty ship that landed on Broadway.”

The seeds for that ending were planted, he thinks, when he added the lyric to the opening number calling what we were about see a “Big, Black, and queer-ass American Broadway show.” He confessed, “Even when I wrote that, I didn’t think the show was going to Broadway, and that wasn’t even what I was trying to do. I was trying to make what felt like a Broadway show to me—my version of what that was supposed to be. So it’s just wild, all that manifesting and that sort of artistic rigor ended up resulting in the show going to Broadway. It feels like a miracle or magical, or something otherworldly, that that could happen.”

A Strange Loop follows Usher (played Jaquel Spivey in his first professional gig out of college), a 25-going-on-26-year-old “overweight-to-obese” Black queer musical theatre writer making a musical about a 25-going-on-26-year-old “overweight-to-obese” Black queer musical theatre writer, ad infinitum. The character’s name is both a reference to the blockbuster-selling R&B singer-songwriter and to the day job the character holds at The Lion King on Broadway, counting down intermissions while assisting entitled wealthy patrons to their seats and dreaming up his breakthrough show; we spend the majority of the show in his mind. Accompanying Usher is a Greek chorus of six “Thoughts,” played to perfection by the spectacular sextet of L Morgan Lee, James Jackson Jr., John-Michael Lyles, John-Andrew Morrison, Jason Veasey, and Antwayn Hopper, each of them contrasting, conspiring against, or calling him out at every turn.

The origins of Jackson’s crowning achievement have become somewhat mythic: Shortly after graduating from New York University’s Dramatic Writing Program in 2002, a 21-year-old Jackson wrote a thinly veiled monologue, a coping mechanism for his career anxiety as a fresh-out-of-college playwright called “Why I Can’t Get Work,” that became the kernel for the show. That monologue was about a young Black gay man walking around New York assessing his life, his career trajectory, and his worth as a Black gay man who is “too fat,” “too femme,” and “too Black” for the culture.

Two years later, while Jackson was attending NYU’s Graduate Musical Theatre Writing Program, a peer of his, Darius Marcel Smith, performed an original song about a one-night stand with another man, and the guilt and shame that came along with being a God-fearing Christian. Inspired, Jackson jotted a lyric in his notebook: “All those Black gay boys I knew who chose to go on back to the Lord.” This phrase, and a musical motif from Tori Amos’s “Pretty Good Year” (the third single from her sophomore effort Under the Pink) inspires him to pen “Memory Song,” snapshots from his coming of age in Detroit as a gay boy with a religious and homophobic upbringing; it would be the first song he’d write as composer and lyricist, and the first germ of what would one day be A Strange Loop. The monologue soon grew into a solo show titled Fast Food Town, performed to mixed reviews Off-Broadway at Ars Nova.

Originally titled “Gayville”—a riff on Exile in Guyville, Liz Phair’s seminal 1993 bedroom-pop indie-rock debut, itself a response to the 1972 Rolling Stones’ cock-rock album Exile on Main Street—Jackson’s musical followed an ultra-self-aware, disillusioned, and furious 20-something undergoing a quarter-life crisis and the downward spirals that come with wading through a liminal space of being a postgraduate, pre-career artist trying to find their corner of the sky. While Phair’s influence looms over the project (check out “Inner White Girl”), her inclusion was a bit more deliberate at first.

“There was an old, old, old draft of A Strange Loop wherein Usher, the character in the musical, was writing these mashups of his songs to Liz Phair songs, mostly to her Exile in Guyville album, and there was a narrative also within the piece where he was trying to reach out to her and get her permission to use her music in the show but also talking to her through his own music mashed up with hers,” Jackson explained. “In real life, I was trying to track her down and get the rights to use her music as well.”

Eventually Phair got back to Jackson, encouraging him to write his own material and make it personal. So he scrapped the mash-ups and began to purge, but thankfully he didn’t take himself too seriously. As a result, A Strange Loop is a disruption, an existential treatise on the soul as it wrestles with topics and taboos at the crossroads of the sacred and profane, all while eviscerating the musical theatre form. Yet its most alluring takeaways come from Jackson’s obsession with the self and with self-identity—an impulse that no doubt be traced to the singer-songwriters he adored growing up.

“There was a song I had written in the show that’s no longer in it called ‘Fan Boy’ that was a mashup against the Liz Phair song called ‘Strange Loop,’ and for years I never knew what the term ‘strange loop’ was—it was just a song on the album that I just really liked,” he clarified. One day it dawned on Jackson to type the phrase into Google, which led him to Douglas R. Hofstadter, the scholar of cognitive science and comparative literature. In his Pulitzer-winning 1979 book Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, Hofstadter coined the term “a strange loop” to describe the navel-gazing nature of individualism and intelligence, writing: “In the end, we are self-perceiving, self-inventing, locked-in mirages that are little miracles of self-reference.” The term, used to describe the paradox of one’s sense of self, is also mirrored in Jackson’s allusions to what W. E. B. DuBois called the “double-consciousness” of African American selfhood created by racism and anti-Blackness. Thus began a series of strange loops, with Liz Phair leading Jackson to Hofstadter, which in turn led him to the title and structure of his groundbreaking hit.

A Strange Loop is hardly the first metafictional musical. There was Jonathan Larson’s semi-autobiographical rock monologue-turned-musical, tick, tick . . . BOOM!, adapted by Lin-Manuel Miranda into a feature film last year. There’s also Jeff Bowen and Hunter Bell’s [title of show], a one-act musical about four characters creating the musical they’re simultaneously performing, which played at the Lyceum Theatre 14 years prior. Yet Jackson’s acclaimed pop-rock Bildungsroman actually follows a lineage of sui generis metafictional musical theatre writers of the post-Black Arts Movement tradition. Like Kirsten Childs’s The Bubbly Black Girl Sheds Her Chameleon Skin and Stew’s Passing Strange before it, A Strange Loop is a funny, life-affirming coming-of-age story about a young, gifted, and Black creative as they journey toward self-discovery and self-acceptance. Fusing gospel, jazz, punk, and blues with rock music, Passing Strange is a fourth wall-breaking picaresque odyssey of Black identity and code-switching against a backdrop of Berlin’s 1987 May Day riots. Through a mélange of ‘60s girl group pop, R&B, and showtunes, The Bubbly Black Girl Sheds Her Chameleon Skin explores a young woman’s battle with internalized racism and self-worth while surrounded by racial profiling, de facto segregation, and sexism in the wake of 16th Street Baptist Church bombing.

A Strange Loop continues the conversations that began with those genre-defying musicals, merging gospel, folk rock, bedroom pop, and alternative music while forging a new path for Black and queer storytelling in the age of Truvada. In American theatre, white gay men have co-opted and oversaturated the marketplace for LGBTQ narratives. Whether it’s the gay Civil Rights movement (Mart Crowley’s The Boys In The Band, Dustin Lance Black’s 8), or the HIV/AIDS epidemic (Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart, Tony Kushner’s Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes, Steven Dietz’s Lonely Planet, William Finn’s Falsettos), or collective trauma (Doug Wright’s I Am My Own Wife, Moisés Kaufman’s The Laramie Project, Martin Sherman’s Bent, Harvey Fierstein’s Torch Song Trilogy, and Douglas Carter Beane’s The Nance), or even queer joy (Fierstein’s La Cage aux Folles, Sherman’s The Boy From Oz). Naturally, a show centering a plus-sized, dark-skinned Black queer man with ambition stands in opposition by design. But A Strange Loop goes further than that, showing no qualms about interrogating such issues as the HIV stigmatization of the Black queer community, racial fetishization, internalized homophobia, parental blackmail, self-loathing, and the paradox, trauma, joy and vicissitudes of being Black and queer and religious.

Indeed, in its brisk 90 minutes, A Strangle Loop both deconstructs and glorifies Black art and queer iconography with absolute abandon. Bristling with references to The Golden Girls and Designing Women, advice columnist Dan Savage, and spoken word artist Audre Lorde, Stephen Sondheim and bell hooks, Scott Rudin and Betty Friedan, the show skews the lines between gay and straight, Black and white, high and low culture with aplomb, putting the musical-within-a-musical in a league of its own, while bridging divides very few of the aforementioned shows have.

No one is safe from critique. One of the biggest targets of Jackson’s ire is Tyler Perry, the multimillionaire movie media mogul, well known for his lowbrow, Chitlin’ Circuit-inspired entertainment, full of ham-fisted messages about the power of prayer. Hallmarks of Perry’s works are satirized and spoofed with surgical precision in A Strange Loop: The stalwart matriarch, the low-income black sheep with an addiction to crack cocaine, the “Strong Black Woman” meandering through life as a lonely spinster with an offstage Ken doll lover interest. Jackson’s contentious relationship with Perry began when a childhood friend introduced him to the impresario’s work shortly after he arrived in New York in 1999; as a gag gift for her birthday, he purchased tickets to see a staged production of Why Did I Get Married? at the Beacon Theatre, starring R&B vocalist Kelly Price, who wore a fat suit in the first act. In A Strange Loop, Usher calls Perry out for his “simple-minded hack buffoonery,” but the mockery is tinged with anxiety; we get the sense that Usher might genuinely be afraid he will create such color-by-number material himself. With each gibe, Jackson holds up a mirror to both the protagonist and himself with profound hilarity and heartbreak.

In one of the show’s most subversive, farcical numbers, “Tyler Perry Writes Real Life,” Usher is confronted by his Thoughts as they masquerade as historical Black figures: Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, Marcus Garvey, Harriet Tubman, and a proxy for every Oscar-bait antebellum picture simply given the name Twelve Years a Slave. Throughout the tune, the Thoughts chastise him for imagining that he is above Perry’s work, especially when an agent offers him an opportunity to quickly ghostwrite a gospel play—news that overjoys his devout parents but repulses Usher. While Usher’s critiques about Perry’s oeuvre have been echoed by his peers, it is his pointed criticism of the filmmaker’s stigmatization of Black queer sexuality and HIV that come into sharpest focus, especially where Perry’s “hate the sin, not the sinner” ethos is concerned. Toward the end of the show, Usher leads his Thoughts in a revival number titled “AIDS Is God’s Punishment,” ridiculing Perry’s proclivity to perpetuate stigma and condone the belief that people living with HIV are sinners who deserve punishment for loving and living out loud. It is a primal scream, Usher’s direct confrontation with the fear mongering and homophobic scripture preached down to him as a youth, as well as a moment of grief for a friend he lost to AIDS. Jackson doesn’t just critique Perry and the Black church here; he also zeroes in on the American theatre and its role in disregarding Black queer people and their stories in favor of white comfort.

“Being willing to challenge any assumptions or popular points of view, being able to question any orthodoxy or status quo—to me that goes in all directions,” Jackson said. “That means if Black Twitter is into something and I’m not into it, that means being willing to risk the ire of Black Twitter, that means being willing to risk the ire of the theatre world, that means being willing to risk the ire of liberal Democrats, of conservatives, of whomever—white people, Black people, everyone, treating everybody the same—and being willing to stand alone, if necessary, in your truth.”

A lot has changed for this musical theatre provocateur in recent years. A major career shift came when A Strange Loop was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 2020, becoming only the 10th musical to earn the honor overall and the first to win the award without a Broadway run. Jackson, who was watching an episode of Bravo’s The Real Housewives of Atlanta while conversing with playwright Branden Jacobs-Jenkins when he received the news, not only made history as the first Black artist to win for writing a musical; he has also become part of a string of Black-authored Pulitzer winner, with Jackie Sibblies Drury’s divisive critical race experiment Fairview nabbing the award in 2019, and Katori Hall’s The Hot Wing King taking the award in 2021 and James Ijames’s Fat Ham winning it this year.

That win was part of the momentum building behind A Strange Loop, which had its Off-Broadway premiere at Playwrights Horizons in 2019, then a limited engagement at Washington, D.C.’s Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company last year. Joining a team led by producer Barbara Whitman and Page 73 Productions, the show’s current Broadway outing has attached an impressive Rolodex of stars to its co-producers’ roster, including RuPaul Charles, Don Cheadle, Jennifer Hudson, Mindy Kaling, Billy Porter, Ilana Glazer, Alan Cumming, Zach Stafford, Cody Renard Richard, Benj Pasek, and Justin Paul. It garnered a record 11 Tony nominations, and though it only took home two of those, they were ones that count: Best Book of Musical and Best Musical. (Best Original Score went to Six.) These wins cap a busy awards season that saw it take home Outstanding Production of a Musical at the 2022 Drama League Awards, and an Outstanding Actor in Musical Award for lead actor Jacques Spivey, who also got an Outer Critics Circle Award and a Theatre World Award honor. Meanwhile L Morgan Lee’s performance earned her the distinction of being the first openly transgender performer to originate a role in a Pulitzer-winning piece of theatre and the first to receive a Tony nomination. Jackson was also included in Time Magazine’s Time 100, an annual listicle of the most influential people in the world, where he was nominated by Porter.

Like many writers for the theatre, he has also become an in-demand writer for TV and film. He recently joined the creative team of the Amazon original series I’m a Virgo, a half-hour superhero satire from writer-director-producer Boots Riley (Sorry to Bother You), starring Jharrel Jerome. Jackson is also developing a TV series for ABC Signature and sold an original pitch to write an untitled horror feature for A24, which Ari Aster and Lars Knudsen are producing under their Square Peg banner. But not to worry, theatre fans, Jackson is still at work on various stage works: White Girl in Danger is a new pop-rock musical partly inspired by classic daytime soaps and ’90s-era Lifetime movies, in development with the Vineyard Theatre Off-Broadway and director Lileana Blain-Cruz; and Teeth, based on the 2007 indie vagina dentata horror comedy by Mitchell Lichtenstein, is being workshopped in collaboration with composer-lyricist Anna K. Jacobs. Jackson has also been commissioned by LCT3, Lincoln Center Theater’s program for emerging artists, to pen Accounts Payable, an original musical inspired by the days when he was slumming it as a finance clerk and executive assistant.

From those bleak early to his current success, Jackson’s North Star has been his dedication to his craft and to the truth.

“I do feel like I’ve changed in a lot of ways,” Jackson said of the past few years in the spotlight. “But I also feel like I am the same person I’ve always been, which is to say I’ve always been somebody who has been trying to get at the truth of life as I understand it and constantly try to scavenge and dig deeper and get past the surface level answers of questions I might be having or that confuse me. I feel like as a young person, a young writer, I was doing that from a much younger perspective.

“That has been the trail I tried to blaze: to be willing to have an unpopular opinion and have a nuanced opinion,” he continued. “That’s only gotten more important to me, especially over these last couple of years, as lots of cultural conversations have taken hold and really gotten louder. I have lot of criticisms and questions in places where I stand apart from my peers, and I have to be willing to stand in that place. I try to stand in that place respectfully and with compassion, even when I want to read people for fucking filth. Even when I have utter contempt for some people and ideas that I see being bandied around.”

As uncompromising as his show’s protagonist, Jackson stood in his truth, and, upon receiving his Tony Award for Best Book of a Musical to a standing ovation, encouraged the American theatre to opt for quality in art. This is a fulcrum moment not just for Jackson, but for every outcast and outlier building their life rafts on the island of misfit toys that is the theatre at its best. As a patron sings to Usher in “A Sympathetic Ear”: “If you’re not scared to write the truth, then it’s probably not worth writing / And if you’re not scared of living the truth, then it’s probably not worth living.”

HITTING NEW HEIGHTS

BY MARCUS SCOTT

ORIGINAL RENT STAR DAPHNE RUBIN-VEGA TAKES YOU INSIDE THE IN THE HEIGHTS FILM

Qué quiere decir sueñito?” The disembodied voice of a girlchild ponders. “It means ‘little dream,’” responds an unseen authoritative figure, his feathery tenor with a soft rasp and tender lilt implying there’s more to the story.

Teal waves crash against the white sand coastal lines of the Dominican Republic and a quartet of children plead with the voice to illuminate and tell a story. Usnavi de la Vega (played by Anthony Ramos), sporting his signature newsboy flat cap and full goatee, begins to narrate and weave a tall-tale from the comforts of his beachside food cart: “This is the story of a block that was disappearing. Once upon a time in a faraway land called Nueva York, en barrio called Washington Heights. Say it, so it doesn’t disappear,” he decrees.

And we’re off, this distant magic kingdom ensnared within the winding urban sprawl of farthest-uptown Manhattan, the music of the neighborhood chiming with infinite possibilities: a door-latch fastening on tempo, a ring of keys sprinkling a sweet embellishment, the splish-splash of a garden hose licking the city streets like a drumstick to a snare fill, a manhole cover rotating like vinyl on a get-down turntable, the hiss of paint cans spraying graffiti like venoms from cobras and roll-up steel doors rumbling, not unlike the ultra-fast subway cars zigzagging underground. So begins the opening moments of In the Heights, the Warner Bros. stage-to-screen adaptation of the Tony Award-winning musical by composer-lyricist Lin-Manuel Miranda (Hamilton) and librettist Quiara Alegría Hudes (Water by the Spoonful) that is set to premiere in movie theatres and on HBO Max on June 11, 2021.

This stunning patchwork of visuals and reverberations combine to create a defiant and instantly memorable collage of inner-city living not seen since Walter Hill’s 1979 cult classic The Warriors or West Side Story, the iconic romantic musical tragedy directed on film by Robert Wise and original Broadway director Jerome Robbins. With Jon M. Chu at the helm, the musical feature has all the trademarks of the director’s opulent signature style: Striking spectacles full of stark colors, va-va-voom visuals, ooh-la-la hyperkinetic showstopping sequences and out-of-this-world destination locations.

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A Kind of Priestess

Joining the fray of proscenium stage vets in the film is Broadway star Daphne Rubin-Vega, who originated the role of Mimi in the Off-Broadway and Broadway original productions of Rent. She returns to major motion pictures after a decade since her last outing in Nancy Savoca’s Union Square, which premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2011. When we caught up with Rubin-Vega, she was hard at work, in-between rehearsals with her In the Heights co-star Jimmy Smits on Two Sisters and a Piano, the 1999 play by Miami-based playwright Nilo Cruz, a frequent collaborator. Rubin-Vega netted a Tony Award nomination for Best Featured Actress in a Play for her role as the enraptured Conchita in Cruz’s Anna in the Tropics; that same year Cruz was awarded the 2003 Pulitzer Prize for Drama, making him the first Latino playwright to receive the honor. Despite significant global, social and economic disruption, especially within the arts community, Rubin-Vega has been working throughout the COVID-19 pandemic.

“People around me have [contracted] COVID… My father-in-law just had it. I’m very fortunate,” Rubin-Vega said. “This collective experience, it’s funny because it’s a year now and things seem better. Last year it was, like, ‘Damn, how inconvenient!’ The one comfort was that, you know, it’s happening to every one of us. That clarity that this is a collective experience is much more humbling and tolerable to me.”

The last time Rubin-Vega graced Washington Heights on screen or stage, she acted in the interest of survival and hunger as a probationer released after a 13-year stint in prison and given a new lease on life as an unlicensed amateur masseuse in the basement of an empanada shop in Empanada Loca, The Spalding Gray-style Grand Guignol horror play by Aaron Mark at the LAByrinth Theater Company in 2015. In In the Heights she plays Daniela, an outrageously vivacious belting beautician with a flair for the dramatics, forced to battle a price-gouging real estate bubble in the wake of gentrification.

“She’s like the deputy or the priestess,” Rubin-Vega said. “Owning a salon means that you have a lot of information; you’re in a hub of community, of information, of sharing… it’s also where you go for physical grooming. It’s a place where women were empowered to create their own work and it is a place of closeness, spiritual advice, not-so-spiritual advice. Physical attention.”

She said, “Daniela also being an elder; I think she’s not so much a person that imposes order on other people. She’s there to bring out the best—she leads with love. She tells it like it is. I don’t think she sugar-coats things. What you see is what you get with Daniela. It’s refreshing; she has a candor and sure-footedness that I admire.”

With the film adaptation, Chu and Hudes promised to expand the universe of the Upper Manhattan-based musical, crafting new dimensions and nuances to two characters in particular: Daniela and hairdresser Carla, originally portrayed as business associates and gossip buddies in the stage musical. On the big screen they are reimagined as romantic life partners. Stephanie Beatriz, known to audiences for her hilarious turn as the mysterious and aloof Detective Rosa Diaz in the police procedural sitcom romp “Brooklyn Nine-Nine,” co-stars as the fast-talking firecracker, Carla.

It’s been a year waiting, you know. It’s like the lid’s been on it and so we’re just so ready to explode.

Where Is Home?

“Well, Quiara and Jon really expanded on what Lin and Quiara originally created and now they’re partners—and not just work partners, right? But they’re life partners,” Beatriz said at a March press event celebrating the release of the film’s two promo trailers. “What was so gratifying to me as a person who is queer is to see this relationship in the film be part of the fabric of the community, and to be normal, and be happy and functioning, and part of the quilt they’ve all created.”

She continued, “So much of this film is about where home is and who home is to you. And for Carla, Daniela is home. Wherever Daniela is, that’s where Carla feels at home. I thought that they did such a beautiful job of guiding us to this, really, you know, it’s just a happy functioning relationship that happens to be gay and in the movie. And I love that they did that, because it is such a part of our world.”

Rubin-Vega said she had no interest in playing any trope of what one might think a lesbian Latina might look or act like, noting that the queer experience isn’t monolithic, while expressing that the role offered her a newfound freedom, especially with regard to being present in the role and in her everyday life.

“Spoiler alert! I felt like not wearing a bra was going to free me. Did I get it right? Am I saying that gay women don’t wear bras? No, it was just a way for me to be in my body and feel my breasts. To feel my femaleness and celebrate it in a more unapologetic way,” she said, laughing. “To be honest, I was really looking forward to playing a lesbian Latina. It’s something that I hadn’t really explored before. Latinos [can be] very homophobic as a culture, and I wanted to play someone who didn’t care about homophobia; I was gonna live my best life. That’s a bigger thing. It’s also like, maybe I’m bisexual. Who knows? Who cares? If you see that in the film, that’s cool too, you know?”

Stand-out performances abound, especially with regard to the supporting cast; newcomers Melissa Barrera (in a role originated by Tony Award winner Karen Olivo) and Gregory Diaz IV (replacing three-time Tony Award nominee Robin de Jesús) are noteworthy as the aspiring fashion designer Vanessa and budding activist Sonny. Olga Merediz, who earned a Tony Award nomination for originating her role as Abuela Claudia, returns to the silver screen in a captivating performance that will be a contender come award season. However, Rubin-Vega may just be the one to watch. Her performance is incandescent and full of moxie, designed to raise endorphin levels. She leads an ensemble in the rousing “Carnaval del Barrio,” a highlight in the film.

Musical Bootcamp

“We shot in June [2019]. In April, we started musical bootcamp. In May, we started to do the choreography. My big joke was that I would have to get a knee replacement in December; that was in direct relation to all that choreography. I mean, there were hundreds of A-1 dancers in the posse,” Rubin-Vega said. “The family consisted of hundreds of superlative dancers led by Chris[topher] Scott, with an amazing team of dancers like Ebony Williams, Emilio Dosal, Dana Wilson, Eddie Torres Jr. and Princess Serrano. We rehearsed a fair bit. Monday through Friday for maybe five weeks. The first day of rehearsal I met Melissa [Barrera] and Corey [Hawkins], I pretty much hadn’t known everyone yet. I hadn’t met Leslie [Grace] yet. Chris Scott, the choreographer, just went straight into ‘let’s see what you can do.’ It was the first [dance] routine of ‘In The Heights,’ the opening number. He was like, ‘OK, let’s go. Five, six, seven, eight!’”

Rubin-Vega said that she tried to bring her best game, though it had “been a minute” since she had to execute such intricate choreography, noting that they shot the opening number within a day while praising Chu’s work ethic and leadership.

“There was a balance between focus and fun and that’s rare. Everyone was there because they wanted to be there,” she said. “I think back to the day we shot ‘96,000.’ That day it wouldn’t stop raining; [it was] grey and then the sky would clear and we’d get into places and then it would be grey again and so we’d have to wait and just have to endure. But even the bad parts were kind of good, too. Even the hottest days. There were gunshots, there was a fire while we were shooting and we had to shut down, there was traffic and noise and yet every time I looked around me or went into video village and saw the faces in there, I mean…it felt like the only place to be. You want to feel like that in every place you are: The recognition. I could recognize people who look like me. For now on, you cannot say I’ve never seen a Panamanian on film before or a Columbian or a Mexican, you know?”

Another Notion of Beauty

Rubin-Vega’s professional relationship with the playwright Hudes extends to 2015, when she was tapped to [participate in the] workshop [production of]  Daphne’s Dive. Under the direction of Thomas Kail (Hamilton) and starring alongside Samira Wiley (“The Handmaid’s Tale,” “Orange Is the New Black”), the play premiered Off-Broadway at the Pershing Square Signature Center the following year. Rubin-Vega also starred in Miss You Like Hell, the cross-country road musical by Hudes and Erin McKeown, which premiered at La Jolla Playhouse in 2016 before it transferred to The Public Theater in 2018. With her participation in the production of In the Heights, she is among the few to have collaborated with all of the living Latinx playwrights to have won the Pulitzer Prize; Hudes won the 2012 Pulitzer Prize for Drama for her play Water by the Spoonful, while Miranda took home the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Drama for Hamilton. Speaking on her multiple collaborations over the years, Rubin-Vega also acknowledged having known Miranda years before they would join voices.

“Lin to me is like a little bro or legacy; he’s a direct descent to me from [Rent author] Jonathan Larson, which is a bigger sort of all-encompassing arch,” she said, though she stressed that she auditioned like everyone else, landing the role after two or three callbacks. “Quiara and I have a wonderful working and personal relationship, I think. Which isn’t to say I had dibs by any means because…it’s a business that wants the best for itself, I suppose. […] So, when I walked in, I was determined to really give it my best.”

Life During and After Rent

Rubin-Vega has built an impressive resume over the course of her career, singing along with the likes of rock stars like David Bowie and starring in a multitude of divergent roles on Broadway and off. From a harrowing Fantine in Les Misérables and a co-dependent Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire to a sinister Magenta in The Rocky Horror Show, her evolution into the atypical character actor and leading lady can be traced back 25 years to January 25, 1996, when Larson’s groundbreaking musical Rent, a retelling of Giacomo Puccini’s 19th-century opera La Bohème, premiered at the New York Theatre Workshop. On the morning of the first preview, Larson suffered an aortic dissection, likely from undiagnosed Marfan’s syndrome and died at the age of 35, just ten days shy of what would have been his 36th birthday.

On April 29, 1996, due to overwhelming popularity, Rent transferred to Nederlander Theatre on Broadway, tackling contemporary topics the Great White Way had rarely seen, such as poverty and class warfare during the AIDS epidemic in New York City’s gritty East Village at the turn of the millennium. Rubin-Vega would go on to be nominated for the Tony Award for Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Musical for her role as sex kitten Mimi Márquez, an HIV-positive heroin addict and erotic dancer.

  The show became a cultural phenomenon, receiving several awards including the Pulitzer Prize for Drama and four Tony Awards, including Best Musical. Rubin-Vega and members of the original Broadway cast were suddenly overnight sensations, recording “Seasons of Love” alongside music icon Stevie Wonder, receiving a photo shoot with Vanity Fair and landing the May 13, 1996 cover of Newsweek. Throughout its 12-year Broadway run, many of the show’s original cast members and subsequent replacements would go on to be stars, including Renée Elise Goldsberry, who followed in Rubin-Vega’s footsteps to play the popular character before originating the role of Angelica Schuyler in Hamilton, for which she won the 2016 Tony Award for Best Featured Actress in a Musical.

When the screen adaptation of Rent hit cinemas in 2005 under the direction of Chris Columbus, Rubin-Vega’s conspicuous absence came as a blow to longtime fans. The confluence of pregnancy with the casting and filming process of Rent hindered her from participating at the time. The role was subsequently given to movie star Rosario Dawson.

“First of all, if you’re meant to be in a film, you’re meant to be in it,” Rubin-Vega said. “That’s just the way it goes. It took a quarter of a century but this [In the Heights] is a film that I wanted to make, that I felt the elements sat right. I always felt that Rent was a little bit darker than all that. Rent to me is Rated R. In The Heights is not. It’s also a testament. Unless it’s sucking your soul and killing you softly or hardly, just stick with it. This is a business and I keep forgetting it’s a business because actors just want to show art. So, it’s really wonderful when you get a chance to say what you mean and mean what you say with your work. It’s a really wonderful gift.”

Rarely-Explored Themes

Like Larson’s award-winning show and the film adapted from it, In The Heights is jam-packed with hard-hitting subject matter, addressing themes of urban blight, immigration, gentrification, cultural identity, assimilation and U.S. political history. When Rubin-Vega’s character Daniela and her partner were priced out of the rent for her salon, most of her clientele moved to the Grand Concourse Historic District in the Bronx. Her salon, a bastion of the community, is met with a polar response when she announces she’s joining the mass exodus with the other victims of gentrification who were pushed out by rising rents. The news is met with negative response from long-time patrons who refuse to take the short commute to the new location. Daniela counters, “Our people survived slave ships, we survived Taino [indigenous Caribbean people] genocide, we survived conquistadores and dictators…you’re telling me we can’t survive the D train to Grand Concourse?”

The question is humorous, but also insinuates a more nuanced understanding of the AfroLatinidad experience in the Western world. The film also looks at the American Dream with a naturalistic approach. Leslie Grace, who plays Nina Rosario, a first-generation college student returning from her freshman year at Stanford University and grappling with finances and the expectations of her community, noted that while her character “finds [herself] at some point at a fork in the road,” she may not have the luxury to be indecisive because of the pressures put on by family, community and country.  

“The struggle of the first-generation Americans in the Latino community is not talked about a lot because it’s almost like a privilege,” Grace asserted. “You feel like it’s a privilege to talk about it. But there is a lot of identity crisis that comes with it and I think we explore that.” Speaking on the character, she elaborated: “Home for her is where her heart is, but also where her purpose is. So, she finds her purpose in doing something outside of herself, greater than herself and going back to Stanford for the people she loves in her community. I really relate to where she’s at, trying to find herself. And I think a lot of other people will, too.”

Worth Singing About

For Miranda, a first-generation Puerto Rican New Yorker that grew up in Inwood at the northernmost tip of Manhattan before attending Wesleyan University where he would develop the musical, this speaks to a larger issue of what defines a home.

“What does ‘home’ even mean? Every character is sort of answering it in a different way,” he said. “For some people, home is somewhere else. For some people, home is like ‘the block’ they’re on. So, that’s worth singing about. It’s worth celebrating in a movie of this size.”

Given the current zeitgeist, it’s no wonder why Chu, Hudes and Miranda decided to pivot with adapting the stage musical for the big screen, leaning in to tackle the plights and predicaments of DREAMers [children of undocumented immigrants seeking citizenship] stateside. In one scene, glimpses of posters at a protest rally read “Immigrant Rights are Human Rights” and “Refugees Are People Too.” Growing up in a multicultural household as a Latina with a Black Latina mother, a white father and a Jewish American stepfather, Rubin-Vega said she was used to being in spaces that were truly multiracial. Nevertheless, there were times when she often felt alien, especially as a du jour rock musical ingenue who looked as she did in the mid-1990s through the 2000s.

“Undocumented people come in different shapes and colors,” she noted. “To be born in a land that doesn’t recognize you, it’s a thing that holds so much horror… so much disgrace happens on the planet because human beings aren’t recognized as such sometimes.”

The film “definitely sheds light on that, but it also talks about having your dream taken away and its human violation—it’s a physical, spiritual, social, cultural violation,” Rubin-Vega said. “There’s a difference between pursuing dreams and being aware of reality. They’re not mutually exclusive. What this film does, it presents a story that is fairly grounded in reality. It’s a musical, it’s over the top… but it reflects a bigger reality, which is like an emotional reality…that people that are challenged on the daily, have incredible resolve, incredible resoluteness and lifeforce.”

She said: “Growing up, looking like me, I got to ingest the same information as everyone else except when it came time to implement my contributions, they weren’t as welcomed or as seen. The dream is to be seen and to be recognized. Maybe I could be an astronaut or an ingenue on Broadway? You can’t achieve stuff that you haven’t imagined. When it talks about DREAMers, it talks about that and it talks about how to not be passive in a culture that would have you think you are passive but to be that change and to dare to be that change.”

Dreams Come True

Dreams are coming true. Alongside the nationwide release of the much-anticipated film, Random House announced it will publish In the Heights: Finding Home, which will give a behind-the-scenes look at the beginnings of Miranda’s 2008 breakout Broadway debut and journey to the soon-to-be-released film adaptation. The table book will chronicle the show’s 20-year voyage from page to stage—from Miranda’s first drawings at the age of 19 to lyric annotations by Miranda and essays written by Hudes to never-before-seen photos from productions around the world and the 2021 movie set. It will be released to the public on June 22, eleven days after the release of the film; an audiobook will be simultaneously released by Penguin Random House Audio.

Hinting at the year-long delay due to the pandemic, Rubin-Vega said, “It’s been a year waiting, you know. It’s like the lid’s been on it and so we’re just so ready to explode.”

Bigger Dreams

“Jon [Chu], I think, dreams bigger than any of us dare to dream in terms of the size and scope of this,” Miranda said. “We spent our summer [in 2018] on 175th Street. You know, he was committed to the authenticity of being in that neighborhood we [all] grew up in, that we love, but then also when it comes to production numbers, dreaming so big. I mean, this is a big movie musical!”

Miranda continued, “We’re so used to asking for less, just to ask to occupy space, you know? As Latinos, we’re, like, ‘Please just let us make our little movie.’ And Jon, every step of the way, said, like, ‘No, these guys have big dreams. We’re allowed to go that big!’ So, I’m just thrilled with what he did ’cause I think it’s bigger than any of us ever dreamed.”

Live performance returns to The Met's galleries and theater with a fall 2021 lineup that features an evening of music by Gavin Creel and more.

by Alexa Criscitiello Aug. 27, 2021  

The Met today announced a new season of live performances with in-person audiences beginning fall 2021 and a new Artist in Residence, the acclaimed dancer and choreographer Bijayini Satpathy. Beginning in October, performances will once again take place in galleries throughout the Museum, as well as in the Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium, and will feature MetLiveArts commissions and leading international musicians and composers.

"MetLiveArts has always been an innovator in the field, producing compelling works that illuminate The Met's collection and galleries in new and often surprising ways," said Max Hollein, Marina Kellen French Director of The Met. "This season brings a range of powerful programs, and we are thrilled to again invite audiences back to the Museum to engage with the exhilarating performances we have ahead."

Limor Tomer, Lulu C. and Anthony W. Wang General Manager of Live Arts, commented: "After nearly a year and a half, we are so excited to welcome back our audiences to experience the visceral force and power of live performance and what it means to once again share energy and space with dynamic artists and fellow enthusiasts. We have always asked our performers to create works that challenge them, and this past year has put that invitation to the test for so many. This new season will include some of the most personal, unexpected, and inventive works of any MetLiveArts season."

Artists this season include Tony and Olivier Award-winner Gavin Creel (Hello, Dolly!; West End production of The Book of Mormon); a world-premiere work by Arvo Pärt at the Temple of Dendur; four-time Grammy Award-winner Angélique Kidjo in an intimate performance; the Dessoff Choirs and Orchestra with soprano Laquita Mitchell; and Heartbeat Opera's acclaimed original production of Beethoven's Fidelio.

During the past 17 months, MetLiveArts has presented virtual performances, including Sonic Cloisters, the popular ongoing series of electronic music concerts filmed in the galleries and courtyards of The Met Cloisters. While the Museum was closed to the public, there were new concerts filmed in the galleries amid the iconic art, as well as digital premieres of past performances-both of which have encouraged audiences from around the world to engage with brilliant musicians and The Met collection and spaces. The Museum's resident quartet, ETHEL & Friends, will continue their weekly virtual series, Balcony Bar from Home.

Performances will be ticketed and open rehearsals will be free with Museum admission.

Artist in Residence: Bijayini Satpathy

Hailed by The New Yorker as "a performer of exquisite grace and technique," the revered Odissi dancer Bijayini Satpathy will be the 2021-22 MetLiveArts Artist in Residence. She will premiere new site-specific works and collaborate with musicians, visual artists, and dancers. Satpathy launched her solo career in 2019, after 25 years as a principal dancer with the lionized Nrityagram Dance Ensemble based in Bangalore, India. As a soloist, Satpathy creates new works that reflect her interest in challenging the tradition and vision of Odissi, and for The Met she will explore that interest through performances in unexpected areas of the Museum's collection, with a special focus on works in modern and contemporary art. During her Museum residency, she will further expand her choreographic language beyond the Indian dance form and collaborate with a range of artists and Met curators.

Satpathy's residency will include in-gallery performances, extensive workshops with New York City-based students and professional dancers, and auditorium performances.

Open rehearsals will begin in January 2022 and take place in five gallery spaces throughout The Met, including the Astor Court; Galleries for the Art of the Arab Lands, Turkey, Iran, Central Asia, and Later South Asia; and the Fuentidueña Chapel at The Met Cloisters. All open rehearsals will take place during Museum hours and will be open to the public. Details about performances in spring and fall 2022 will be announced.

Fall 2021 and Early Winter 2022 Performances:

Gavin Creel: Walk on Through

Monday, October 25, 2021, at 6 and 8:30 p.m.

The Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium

Tony and Olivier Award-winner Gavin Creel was a museum novice for most of his 20 years living in New York City. Invited to create a program for MetLiveArts, he spent countless hours over the past year exploring the Museum's galleries, finding inspiration, and falling in love with The Met. Experience Creel's newfound passion and sense of wonder for The Met in his newly composed songs that make the art sing.

Tickets start at $25.

Celebrating Arvo Pärt at The Met

Sunday, October 31, 2021, at 3 p.m., and Monday, November 1, 2021, at 7 p.m.

The Temple of Dendur

The Temple of Dendur is the setting for a world-premiere a cappella choral work from the beloved Estonian composer Arvo Pärt, composed to celebrate the reopening of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church, which was destroyed on September 11, 2001. The Schola Cantorum choir are joined by Grammy Award-winning Experiential Orchestra in an evening of masterpieces composed over Pärt's career, which has spanned seven decades.

Tickets start at $65.

The Orchestra Now, Conducted by Leon Botstein:

Beethoven and Cristofori, The Piano's First Century

Sunday, December 5, 2021, at 2 p.m.

Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 5 illuminates the transformation of piano music, which began with Bartolomeo Cristofori's breakthrough invention of the fortepiano. The Grand Piano (1720) by Bartolomeo Cristofori (Italian) is on view in Gallery 684 at The Met Fifth Avenue and is part of the Museum's Musical Instruments collection.

Stravinsky, Picasso, and Cubism

Sunday, February 20, 2022, at 2 p.m.

Featuring Stravinsky's Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments and Pablo Picasso's Man with a Guitar.

Igor Stravinsky's deconstructed and reassembled music from the 1920s was heavily influenced by the work of his friend Pablo Picasso. One of his masterpieces from this period is this concerto, which Stravinsky loved to perform himself.

Dvořák, Macdowell, and Delacroix: The New World

Sunday, April 10, 2022, at 2 p.m.

Antonín Dvořák's Symphony No. 9, From the New World (Mvt. 2); Edward MacDowell's Suite No. 2, Indian; and Eugène Delacroix's The Natchez

From their earliest encounters in the New World, Europeans were mesmerized by the Indigenous peoples of North America. French artist Eugène Delacroix painted a Natchez family as they fled the massacre of their tribe up the Mississippi River. Edward MacDowell's Indian Suite incorporated Indigenous melodies and rhythms, and the second movement of Antonín Dvořák's New World Symphony was inspired by Longfellow's poem on Hiawatha.

All performances take place in the Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium.

Tickets start at $30; $75 for the series.

Christmas with the Dessoff Choirs

Sunday, December 19, 2021, at 3 p.m.

The Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium

Led by director Malcolm J. Merriweather, the Dessoff Choirs and Orchestra welcome the holiday season with two works by highly influential yet underrepresented composers: Margaret Bonds and Mary Lou Williams. The concert features The Ballad of the Brown King, a Christmas cantata by Margaret Bonds, and the great Jazz composer Mary Lou Williams's Black Christ of the Andes, along with some of Williams's other rarely heard choral works. The performance features internationally recognized soloists, soprano Laquita Mitchell, mezzo-soprano Lucia Bradford, and tenor Noah Stewart.

Tickets start at $25.

Angélique Kidjo at The Met

Monday, December 27, and Tuesday, December 28, 2021, at 6 and 8:30 p.m.

The Michael C. Rockefeller Wing

Four-time Grammy Award-winner and "Africa's premier diva" (Time) Angélique Kidjo performs an intimate site-specific program devoted to the Museum's collection of African art. Set in the galleries of the Michael C. Rockefeller Wing, which are currently closed in preparation for renovation and reenvisioning, Kidjo's performance anticipates the vision and reinstallation of the galleries, underscoring the aesthetic qualities, authorship, provenance, and cultural context of the art to be displayed.

Tickets start at $65.

Beethoven's Fidelio

Heartbeat Opera

Thursday, February 10; Saturday, February 12; and Monday, February 14, 2022, at 7 p.m.

The Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium

Adapted and directed by Ethan Heard

Music arranged and directed by Daniel Schlosberg

New English dialogue by Marcus Scott and Ethan Heard

When a Black activist is wrongfully incarcerated, his wife disguises herself to infiltrate the system and free him, but injustice reigns. In this daring adaptation created by Heartbeat Opera, Beethoven's classic is reimagined in the time and context of the Black Lives Matter movement. The opera will feature the voices of more than 100 incarcerated singers and volunteers from prison choirs.

Tickets start at $25.

For tickets, visit metmuseum.org/performances, call 212-570-3949, or stop by any desk in the Great Hall at The Met Fifth Avenue.

Your ticket includes Museum admission on the day of the event.

BY ANDREW GANS

JUN 16, 2021

The upcoming benefit, celebrating the New York Public Library's Billy Rose Theatre Division, honors George C. Wolfe and the late Harold Prince.

Additional artists have joined the upcoming I'm Still Here benefit, celebrating the 90th anniversary of The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts’ Billy Rose Theatre Division and the 50th anniversary of its Theatre on Film and Tape Archive.

Honoring Tony-winning directors George C. Wolfe and the late Harold Prince, I’m Still Here will stream on Broadway on Demand June 23 at 8 PM ET.

Jason Robert Brown, Savion Glover, Priscilla Lopez, Susan Stroman, Marisha Wallace, and Christopher Wheeldon have joined the starry roster of participants. The evening, as previously announced, will also feature archival content of several Broadway productions preserved in the archive, including the newly announced Angela Bassett and Samuel L. Jackson in The Mountaintop; Bette Midler in I'll Eat You Last; Brian Stokes Mitchell in Ragtime; Kelli O'Hara and Paulo Szot in South Pacific; Christian Borle and Tim Curry in Spamalot; and Craig Bierko and Rebecca Luker in The Music Man.

Viewers can expect to see Glover, Jimmy Tate, Choclattjared, and Raymond King in Bring in 'da Noise, Bring in 'da Funk; Meryl Streep, Marcia Gay Harden, and Larry Pine in The Seagull; Lin-Manuel Miranda, Robin de Jesús, Christopher Jackson, Karen Olivo, Andréa Burns, Janet Dacal, Eliseo Román, and Seth Stewart in In the Heights; and Glenn Close in Sunset Boulevard.

Watch Stephanie J. Block Belt Out She Loves Me's 'A Trip to the Library' for NYPL I'm Still Here Benefit

Also taking part: Annaleigh Ashford (Sunday in the Park with George), Alexander Bello (Caroline, or Change), Laura Benanti (She Loves Me), Malik Bilbrew, Alexandra Billings (Wicked), Susan Birkenhead (Jelly’s Last Jam), Shay Bland, Alex Brightman (Beetlejuice), Matthew Broderick (Plaza Suite), Krystal Joy Brown (Hamilton), David Burtka (Gypsy), Sammi Cannold (Endlings), Ayodele Casel (Chasing Magic), Victoria Clark (The Light in the Piazza), Max Clayton (Moulin Rouge!), Calvin L. Cooper (Mrs. Doubtfire), DeMarius Copes (Mean Girls), Trip Cullman (Choir Boy), Taeler Elyse Cyrus (Hello, Dolly!), Quentin Earl Darrington (Once on This Island), Robin de Jesús (In the Heights), André De Shields (Hadestown), Frank DiLella (NY1), Derek Ege, Amina Faye, Harvey Fierstein (La Cage aux Folles), Leslie Donna Flesner (Tootsie), Chelsea P. Freeman, Joel Grey (Cabaret), Ryan J. Haddad (The Politician), Sheldon Harnick (Fiddler on the Roof), James Harkness (Ain’t Too Proud), Marcy Harriell (Company), Neil Patrick Harris (Hedwig and the Angry Inch), Mark Harris (Mike Nichols: A Life), David Henry Hwang (M. Butterfly), Cassondra James (Once on This Island), Marcus Paul James (Rent), Taylor Iman Jones (Hamilton), Maya Kazzaz, Tom Kirdahy (The Inheritance), Hilary Knight, Michael John LaChiusa (The Wild Party), Norman Lear (Good Times), Baayork Lee (A Chorus Line), Sondra Lee (Hello, Dolly!), Telly Leung (Aladdin), Ashley Loren (Moulin Rouge!), Allen René Louis, Brittney Mack (Six), Taylor Mac (Gary: A Sequel to Titus Andronicus), Morgan Marcell, Aaron Marcellus, Joan Marcus, Michael Mayer (Spring Awakening), Sarah Meahl, Joanna Merlin (Fiddler on the Roof), Ruthie Ann Miles (Sunday in the Park with George), Bonnie Milligan (Head Over Heels), Rita Moreno (West Side Story), Leilani Patao (Garden Girl), Nova Payton (Dreamgirls), Joel Perez (Kiss My Aztec), Bernadette Peters (Into the Woods), Tonya Pinkins (Jelly’s Last Jam), Jacoby Pruitt, Sam Quinn, Phylicia Rashad (A Raisin in the Sun), Jelani Remy (Ain’t Too Proud), Leslie Rodriguez Kritzer (Beetlejuice), George Salazar (Be More Chill), Marilyn Saunders (Company), Marcus Scott (Fidelio), Rashidra Scott (Company), Rona Siddiqui (Tales of a Halfghan), Ahmad Simmons, Rebecca Taichman (Indecent), Jeanine Tesori (Fun Home), Bobby Conte Thornton (Company), Sergio Trujillo (On Your Feet), Kei Tsuruharatani (Jagged Little Pill), Ben Vereen (Pippin), Jack Viertel, Christopher Vo, Paula Vogel (Indecent), Nik Walker (Ain’t Too Proud), Shannon Fiona Weir, Helen Marla White (Ain’t Misbehavin’), Natasha Yvette Williams (Orange Is the New Black), and Ricardo Zayas (Hamilton).

The program will also feature interviews with Broadway artists plus the re-conception of classic musical theatre songs, including "A Trip to the Library," “Wheels of a Dream,” “Another Hundred People,” “Love Will Find a Way,” and, fittingly, “I’m Still Here.”

READ: The Woman Who Fought to Record and Preserve Broadway Shows

The virtual benefit is produced and conceived by Boardman and Doran and features direction by Steve Broadnax, Sammi Cannold, Nick Corley, Ty Defoe, Lorin Latarro, Mia Walker, and Jason Michael Webb, choreography by Ayodele Casel, Latarro, and Ray Mercer, with new music arranged by Rachel Dean and Annastasia Victory, arrangements and orchestrations by Brian Usifer, and casting by Peter Van Dam at Tara Rubin Casting.